


Beloved Silver

by xcutfromtheteam



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Punk, John Plays Rugby, M/M, Past Sexual Abuse, Punklock, Self-harm Warning, Teenlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-04
Updated: 2015-12-06
Packaged: 2018-03-28 22:33:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 42,762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3872221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xcutfromtheteam/pseuds/xcutfromtheteam
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock's a punk. John is a rugby player. You see where this is going.</p><p>(On hiatus)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I Just Found Out Looks Can Kill

**Author's Note:**

> And I thought I had a few good years left before my midlife crisis. Guess not. Sometimes you just need high school Punk!lock, though. It will, however, deal with some subjects that may be triggering and/or too heavy for some of you, and although it won't appear in the first chapter, I will put warnings accordingly. This one is pretty clean, aside from some language.
> 
> Enjoy :)
> 
> The chapter title comes from "Daggers" by The Adicts (yes, that's how the band's name is spelled).

Sherlock began his day with a mistake. A series of mistakes, actually. He shouldn't have slept in, he shouldn't have left late, and he shouldn't have wasted time getting to class. Really, he shouldn't have gone to class, period. Because since Greg caught the flu, getting his seat in the back where no one else sat depended all on Sherlock.

Usually, he and Greg shared a table (which really was just a few desks cramped together for space purposes), and the other students didn't want to sit there with them for a number of reasons. The two would sit with four empty seats while the other tables crowded themselves to the limit with no room to spare, some students going as far as to pull an unoccupied chair from Sherlock and Greg's table and taking it to another.

But when he arrived, after arguing with the front desk about late slips for five minutes, the students had unevenly spread out all around, with no tables left empty—only seats at the tables.

Sherlock ambled past the teacher's desk and carelessly threw the late slip down in front of her, not even stopping to do so, and she scowled at him undoubtedly, without attempting to hide it. But after that, he stood away from her desk awkwardly and scanned the room, surveying to see who would be the least irritating group he could withstand for the next hour. It was an advanced chemistry class, Sherlock's favorite, after all, so he didn't have to worry about the going-no-where's, who he only had to deal with in the halls and at lunch.

Luckily no one watched him as he meandered around the classroom, endeavoring to look like he was going to take a seat, though he had no intention to do so. If only he could get away with doing it for the rest of the class.

"Sherlock," Mrs. Abney snapped as Sherlock stood in between the Rugby Boys and the Pretty Girl tables, enunciating every syllable and stretching the ones that were present. "Sit down." She had never liked him. Ever since the first day, when he (correctly) corrected her after five minutes of hearing her speak, she'd been out to get him. But the boy was simply unbreakable. You could give him twice as much work as the rest of the class, and he'd do twice _that_ just to spite you.

Sherlock glanced between the two tables, the girls glowering at him, while the boys looked at each other with amused faces, then turning to Sherlock with another, rougher scowl. All but one, who moved his things from the only empty seat and smiled at Sherlock, a smile that seemed to apologize for his friends, and threw his head to the side to tell him to sit. He had kind, bright eyes, with an indiscernible color from this distance, and slightly messy blonde hair that glistened as the under the harsh fluorescent lights that mimicked the Sun in the aspect that they could probably blind you if you stare for too long, the light almost shining through it, it was so thin and light.

Sherlock didn't trust him. He recognized him from all of the rugby pictures and news, even though Sherlock knew nothing about the sport and never attended a game. He was the type of kid who teachers would give a cut to their workload just to let them help with something "important", like sorting books or going down to the lunch room to pick up lunch for the entire staff. Sherlock resented those kids. Not because he wanted it for himself—God, no—but just because he was bitter about special treatment.

With trepidation and an untrusting, yet quick, glare in the boy's direction, Sherlock sat in the empty seat, pulling it away from the table and sitting on the edge of the chair with his whole body hunched forward and his arms wrapped around his own small frame. He could have put his things on the table in front of him like everyone else, but he decided to try and balance it all in his narrow lap instead.

The rugby table usually got called down every day for disrupting the class, whether it be talking too loudly or having a paper wad fight, much to Sherlock's dismay and annoyance. But now they sat in silence, all previous conversation dispersing like air from a balloon. One looked like they were going to say something, until the sound of a hideous tapping on a microphone sounded from above, the microphone now screeching, causing some students to plug their ears and curse.

Someone at the front office whose name was probably Vicky droned on and on through the morning announcements, talking about upcoming events that no one cared about. All Sherlock could hear was the faint whistling sound of the cheap microphone in the background and the sound of heavy breathing into it. He could imagine it, soaking wet and confined in a hot, stuffy room with barely enough air to breathe. For once, it relieved him because even if it only lasted a few minutes, he could look at the floor and forget where he was.

"Why the fuck would you put a needle through your eyebrow _and_ nose?" one boy called after the announcements were over and conversations began to heat back up, spreading like fire across the classroom, whistling once and snapping a few times to get Sherlock's attention, which he did not receive. "Are you even listening to me?"

Sherlock blinked a few times before returning to reality and lifting his head to find four unnaturally handsome faces looking at him, a few snickering. He didn't answer and looked down again, playing with a loose white string on his blue school blazer. Royal blue blazers with white trim, a white shirt, a matching blue tie, and black trousers. They all looked like sailors in their uniforms.

"He's not gonna talk to you, mate. He's mute or something."

"Not when he wants to talk shit," another boy mumbled, earning Sherlock another few glares.

Then he heard the blonde boy, Jack or something (Jared? Jacob?), clear his throat and tried averting their eyes, as he didn't look at Sherlock at all, even though he was right next to him. "Right, so, the homework last night . . ."

Sherlock offered his thanks with his eyes while the other boys dug through their abyss of a bag, and the boy nodded and smiled softly.

The other boys got out the homework and talked about it for a while. Well, they copied each other's answers that they got off the Internet and filled in the gaps. They had one answer wrong, and Sherlock bit his tongue trying not to say anything about it, and he hadn't even used the Internet on it.

"So, John," the boy who tried to get Sherlock's attention earlier said with a smirk. He's a handsome guy, until he opens his mouth. First, you see the strong jawline and muscular arms, with deep, foresty green eyes and dimples. But then you hear his screeching, judgmental voice shout homophobic language at you in the hall, and it's all shot to hell. "You see Sarah last night?"

John smiled politely and shrugged. He obviously felt indifferent about this girl, Sherlock noted. "Yeah, she wanted me to go to dinner with her. I did."

"Well, you sound thrilled about it," another boy with dark hair and glasses said sarcastically.

Another shrug, this time putting his pencil down and resting his arms on top of the table and cradling his face with his hands. "I just don't think Sarah's right for me, you know? Like, it doesn't feel right to me."

"That's what you said about the last one," Homophobe said.

"And the one before that."

"And the one before that one, too."

John swatted at the chorus of voices who continued on. "Yeah, I know, I get it. Now shut up." He sighed. "Do you think I should stop talking to her completely?"

The boy with the glasses bit his lip, but laughed, despite his best efforts, along with the others. "You do know that she's been going around telling everyone—and I mean _everyone_ —that she's dating John Watson, right?"

"What? We've hung out together three times. And that's all it was: hanging out."

"Which is why you've got to string her along for at least another week," Glasses Boy said. "Who knows? You might actually like her. It's always awkward at first."

"Plus, you might get a good shag," Homophobe suggested.

John rolled his eyes at that. "I'm not going to have sex with her if I know I'm going to break up with her."

Sherlock couldn't help but have the ghost of a smile play at his lips. He found it rather noble of John. Not many people were like that, especially the kids like Homophobe who fucked at any chance they were given. He had probably shagged the female population of students in its entirety, and no one batted an eyelash.

"You're fucking stupid, John."

"Maybe," John said. "But I don't have any children or STDs, so."

"Oi, neither do I, you wanker."

John smiled, the light now not only focusing on his hair but on his teeth, glimmering on it and illuminating his whole person, and it was the best thing Sherlock had seen all day, surprising himself, as he pushed the thought away, cramming it into the very back of his mind, buried under all of his other thoughts, but it kept fighting through and climbing back to the surface, only to be pushed back again.

"Didn't say I was talking about you, but if you have something you want to talk about . . ."

"Whatever," he quickly interrupted, earning another smile from John. "I'm going to do my work now like a good little boy because Abney keeps staring, and it's freaking me out. You can work with Holmes." He had whispered it with a smirk, but John didn't return the gesture, and Sherlock had to hold back a sigh of relief.

John simply shrugged again and turned to Sherlock, smiling brightly again, although not with his teeth as he had done a few seconds ago, the one that struck a chord in Sherlock's mind and sent it into anarchy.

"Do you want me to work with you? I doubt you'll need my help, or anyone else's, for that matter."

Sherlock held back a grin and settled with curving the corners of his lips ever so slightly. He noticed that he was intelligent. Actually noticed and didn't mock him or hate him for it.

"Well, I missed the instructions, apparently, so you can help me with that."

John leaned in slightly so he could actually hear the boy in front of him. He must have only wanted John to hear him speak, as it always became an opportunity for students to gawk and whisper whenever he actually spoke more than a word or two.

His voice initiated a feeling of mild insecurity in John as he listened to the low, sultry sound and compared it to his own voice. Even Sherlock's voice sounded smart, which was another thing for John to now be self-conscious of, especially since he wanted to be a doctor, and if this is what London had to offer, he would be doomed to a life of poverty.

"Right, well, it's just a worksheet. If you need help with any of the questions—"

"I disagree with the idea that you should lead Sarah on," he abruptly said, still only speaking loudly enough for only John to hear, which wasn't that difficult in the now quite loud classroom, and he looked John in the eyes. The color of his eyes were just as complex and layered as he was, with blue, green, gray, and even some brown around the center swirled around, putting John in a trance. "And although I respect your morals of not having any sort of sexual relations with her, it's incredibly inane of you to let someone else decide the duration of the relationship for you. Obviously, this girl has some sort of importance to your family, maybe your parents know each other, and you're feeling obligated to date her." He stopped and looked John up and down before nodding slowly and grinning. "No, I have it now. She doesn't hold importance to your family; they don't even know each other, and you don't plan to introduce her. This is an experiment for you. You're hoping to prove . . . something to yourself."

John stopped breathing for a few seconds until his brain suddenly scolded him and reminded him that he needed air to live. He said so little, but he had said so much. And he'd been vague, but he knew that Sherlock was only doing that because he didn't want to announce it to everyone, surprisingly. Sherlock always knew, and if he could tell what time a teacher went to bed two nights ago what they had for breakfast that morning, he knew what John was trying to prove to himself.

"Um, I suppose so. We were set up by friends. I'm still not sure whether I'm completely interested or not. But she is. Very much so, honestly. I guess I'm worried about hurting her."

Sherlock leaned back in his seat and focused on one of the flickering lights on the ceiling, as if staring at it intensely enough would finally put it out of its misery and make it burn out. "She doesn't really like you. She just likes the attention she's getting because of you."

With a sigh, John said, "You're probably right."

"Not probably. Definitely."

Another, deeper sigh. "You're definitely right."

Sherlock smiled again, softer this time, and it actually managed to look delicate. "And I thought today would be a bad day."


	2. It Gets Loneliest At Night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title comes from "Kiss The Bottle" by Jawbreaker.
> 
> Warnings: Self-harm and suicide attempt (it's in a flash back and rather brief, but still).

Sherlock didn't want to go home. Then again, he really didn't fancy staying at school, either. Or going anywhere else, for that matter. He felt stuck in a maze of directions that were wrong no matter what path you took, like they all led to the same place either way, and he wasn't sure what that place was. He didn't want to know.

His last class was English, the only other class he had with Greg, therefore the only other class he sometimes talked in. But today he spent it in silence. It didn't really bother him to stay quiet, though. In fact, it felt nice to be able to slip inside yourself and block out everything else, to live in your own world. In his world, it all looked the same as it did in the real world. But it contained important memories, good or bad, which Sherlock stored away for later use. He ruled over the whole thing, what went in, what went out. It was like a palace. A mind palace.

But then the bell rang, and he got a rude awakening to the stark reality of the world he couldn't control again.

Students filed out in clusters and herds, toppling over themselves at the joy of getting to go home, eat dinner, do homework until it's time to go to bed, and then the cycle starts over, day after day, year after year. Sherlock waited until only a few were left before making his way to the door, not wanting to be alone in the room with an adult. Not even for a few seconds.

If the pack of animals leaving the classroom were any inclination as to what the hallway itself would be, Sherlock wanted no part in it. And he was right: The hallway was much worse. If he weren't so tall and didn't have a reputation of hostile behavior, he would have been trampled, surely, by the masses of students overflowing into the slim passage.

"Hey, Sherlock."

Sherlock stopped and wondered if he had started hearing things. The voice drifted by as the person walked by, their voice making it quick and simple. It came from the wolf pack, aka the rugby boys. And the one who'd said it . . . Had he not scared John off? It wasn't like he detached himself from the group to have a good chat with his new best friend, school freak and local joke, Sherlock Holmes. But it meant so much to him, and John had no idea, and he never would.

Too choked up to speak, he waved slightly, his hand only halfway up and his fingers swaying the slightest bit, uncharacteristically awkward. Then he closed his hand, his nails clenched against his palm and his knuckles white, and took off, faster now, getting ahead of the group so quickly that they should have recruited him for the team.

Surprisingly, he didn't hear snickering or whispering behind him. Yet. John would be courteous enough to wait until he left before talking about it. So he did him the favor of leaving as soon as possible.

Pushing the door perhaps too hard, he began his walk home. He didn't want anyone to drive him. Plus, even in the winter, the air felt nice and open, unconstricted and free. The air whipped around him, unabashed, because it apparently had somewhere to be. How must that feel? To have somewhere to be and belong in? This was how he distracted himself from thinking about things like the subject of John: observing. It always helped before, but something about the image and the memory of him that was forever etched into Sherlock's brain overpowered every other thought.

Sherlock pulled his coat tight around him and walked a bit faster, desperate to get home soon, a thought that only went through his mind when it was either too cold, he needed to be completely alone, or if he was unsafe. Right now it balanced between the first two, as his fingers were numbing and he kept, for whatever reason, thinking about a boy who would likely get his friends to attack him if he ever tried something, or worse, he could do it himself. John was small, but Sherlock wouldn't fight him back, regardless. Those were the type of thoughts that required alone time.

The winter only magnified how cold Sherlock's house appeared. Not only was it too big—too big for only three people—but it held a certain dignity to it that could only be described as disconsolate. No kids knocked on the door on Halloween, no new neighbors stopped by to say hello, and no one dared to even come close to the land on which it stayed.

Once upon a time the house had been beautiful, when its freshness and liveliness radiated throughout the town, lighting it up as the lights clicked on for the evening, as closely knitted family members and friends of the family poured in for dinner, a time filled with joy and laughter. His parents hadn't quarreled every day, Sherlock spoke to people, there was love in the house. That didn't exist anymore. It was more like a distant memory, or a dream that Sherlock forgot the details of, so he improvised.

Yet there his parents were, cheerful and clueless. Hopefully they wouldn't be home, and then Sherlock could sneak away before they came back, making it easier for everyone. But they were home. Sherlock mouthed a curse when he saw a full driveway and walked slowly to the door, pausing before opening it, as if he were waiting for something, anything, to come and save him from this. Maybe the world could end or a heavy enough rock could magically fall from the sky onto him.

At least no one stood waiting for him at the door, and Sherlock was able to stop and stay put in his little space of peace before he entered the dining room, where a cold dinner waited for him, a dinner that looked disgusting, and there was no way in hell his parents allowed this from the cook, until Sherlock looked around long enough (six seconds, about) at his mother's gleaming, proud smile and how his dad had none, so he didn't hurt her feelings, probably coming up with some excuse about already eating at work or something that she wouldn't detect as a lie.

"There you are," she said, a nervous look passing over her eyes. "We wanted to wait for you. I figured it's been too long since we had a proper dinner together."

She was the one to blame for the dinner. She hadn't cooked a dinner since Sherlock was seven, and even then, it had been because her sister was visiting, and she wanted to show off skills she clearly didn't have because the food was indiscernible. Sherlock sat down and picked at it. Not even his deduction skills could help him with this one.

"How was school?" his father asked, looking and sounding more nervous than his wife. What were they nervous about? Did they think that today would be different than all others?

Sherlock merely looked at him and tapped his fork against the plate, dragging it a bit, his mother wincing at the sound. His eyes contained pure ice, and that spoke mediums far beyond what his mouth could say.

"Did you have a good day?" his mother asked, a little too loud and monotonous to be considered a sincere question. She just wanted him to speak, and she wanted someone to hear when he did. Not because he would actually be speaking, but so she could take credit for being the one who inspired it, a hero story.

Now he tapped his fingers on the table, drumming each fingernail hitting the wood one right after the other, creating a repetitive rhythm that got annoying almost as soon as it started. His eyes focused on her now, occasionally bouncing back to his father. Their smiles slowly faded, although the trace of them remained, just for a little extra encouragement. God, he hated when they tried to try. The silence lasted for three minutes and nineteen seconds. Twenty seconds, twenty-one seconds, twenty-two seconds, twenty-three seconds . . .

"Uh, Sherlock, we spoke with your school today. And in your classes, you're . . . perfect. Really, I mean, you can get into Oxford. That's where you're going, isn't it? You'd do well there."

Flattery. This was their favorite method. If it worked with their coworkers, they believed it would work on him. But he really did have perfect marks, and he knew it. He wondered how much it pained the administration to admit that.

"However," his mother cut in after hesitating, "we were told that you've missed classes, and I thought that you haven't missed a day yet. Are you cutting classes?"

Silence. Draining, uncomfortable silence that dragged on and on. Now whatever stayed from the smile completely vanished from both of their faces, being replaced by solemn faces, filled with sadness, anger, and maybe even some guilt, if they knew what to be guilty about. They would assume guiltiness to be on account of fact that they failed him. Had they? Should they even be guilty?

"So how was your day?" his mother finally said with a sigh behind her voice to her husband, disregarding Sherlock as even being present, then, on queue, realizing what she was doing, he launched into a tragic story of how stressful his line of work was.

Well, Sherlock was done here. He remained silent even as he pushed back his chair and left, slipping away without notice.

It was routine by now, a show, each with their own lines and acts, repeated every day. Sherlock knew that the story his father had started ended as soon as he left, and now they were talking about him. Probably talking about the Wrong Things, everything that was wrong with him. _Where did we go wrong? Why does he hate us? Why won't he talk? Do all teenagers go through this phase? Mycroft never did this._

The sun started to set, the blue sky dressing in its orange pajamas before it completely went to sleep. A few stars began to hang in the darkening sky as light snow fell, like dust from the stars. The thin blanket of snow that lay fresh on the lawn looked peaceful, especially against the light of the battling sun and moon.

Sherlock opened the door all the way and rubbed the wall until he found the light switch and turned it on before entering. His room looked rather plain and bleak, almost, as he figured that no one other than him would be in there. It used to be filled with science equipment and books and life, but now it was all pushed into closets and bags, like he was already packed to leave for university.

His violin, at least, was still perched in the corner, just where it had been left the last time Sherlock played it, which was years ago. Three years, to be exact. He had been good at it, and he still would be if he were to play again, but it was a different time. Music, particularly the violin, in Sherlock's opinion, played to sound beautiful, and although it may not always be happy, beauty intertwined with it, and life lost its beauty in those three years.

Hidden under his mattress was a worn-looking pack of cigarettes that he kept for nights like these, where his day turned odd, and the balance of it all was ultimately thrown off. He grabbed them and headed out to the balcony that attached itself to his room, separated by a glass door that usually stayed covered by a silky black curtain. But tonight the curtain swayed to the side and gave him just enough of a glimpse to entice him to go out, inviting him out.

Sherlock kept his blazer on, but he took off the tie, throwing it on the floor, and untucked his shirt, unbuttoning the top few buttons. Normally he'd lose the jacket, too, but he would need it tonight, if the walk home was any inclination.

Some thought it was strange that Sherlock always carried a lighter with him when he only smoked on certain occasions. It was convenient, though, so he didn't really care. He took it from his pocket and held it up to the cigarette in his hand, igniting it into a tiny flame that emitted patterns of smoke into the air, blending with the breaths created by the cold, like they were made for each other.

Sherlock stayed out for a few minutes with his mind shut off. It was an almost impossible thing to do, that. It stole nearly all of his energy and attention, which helped, but rarely did it ever happen successfully. He didn't know how he even managed this time.

Instead of thinking, he carefully watched from high up. Some kids were outside, laughing too loudly and playing. Sherlock wondered if he was ever like that, if someone like him had ever watched him and became entranced by how _happy_ he was. The mind must have turned back on, then, a short-lived period.

Now the kids' mothers hastened them back inside, claiming that it was getting too dark and cold. One of the mothers, a neighbor that avoided the Holmes family, locked eyes with him for a second, and he didn't take his eyes away, striving to burn his glare into her for focusing on him. She frowned at him and rushed her son in, still staring at Sherlock as she gave her child a gentle push.

Then, once they were all in, silence.

The silence overwhelmed him when he wasn't in control of it. It induced his brain to go into hysterics, thinking about who he was and where he was and what happened. He felt physically ill because of it sometimes. Because it always found its way back to that night. It would always be that night.

The snow was no longer peaceful; now it reminded him of lost innocence as the purity of the white melted into the dirt, white bed sheets that you could drown in as you thrashed in them and tried to get away, death. And between the cigarette smoke, allergies, and the harsh cold in the air, the air now felt suffocating, like someone had their hand over your mouth so you couldn't scream, so no one would hear you scream.

The first time the memories took over like this, Sherlock almost jumped. He was determined to forget it, so determined that the determination claimed his hope for recovery and made him believe that the only way to achieve forgetting is to jump. The height of the fall would be enough to take his life. He had gotten over the balcony and onto the very edge, on the tips of his toes just to stay on, before he climbed back over and went back inside.

Needless to say, he didn't sleep well that night. Part of his mind was shocked that he almost killed himself, while the other had was disappointed that he didn't go through with it. That was also the first night he ever took a razor to his arm. It proved to be a horrible coping mechanism. But he couldn't stop. Those two sides of his mind were battling again, arguing like his parents, one half telling him to stop, the other telling him to keep going.

Sherlock bit his lip as he remembered it. Now it wasn't just that night he had to think about; more bad memories had been added, and since they were a direct cause of that night, those thoughts led back to it. Always.

Slamming the unfinished cigarette down just enough to put the flame out, Sherlock recoiling his hand when it hit the balcony railing, a bruise already forming, he pitched the cigarette into the bed of melting snow. He went back inside quickly tried going to sleep, not even bothering to change clothes. He couldn't sleep. He just lied there. He refused to get up; not even to go to the bathroom to get some water because his mind was at it again, arguing. This time, however, he took his own side in the argument, a third voice that actually sounded like his own, unlike the other two, who sounded familiar, he couldn't tell who. It felt nice to have his own voice for once. Maybe it would last.


	3. Waiting For Your Breath

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter title comes from "Last Caress" by the one and only Misfits. (It's actually a _very_ crude song, if you don't already know it, by the way. Please don't get me in trouble with your parents, young readers.)

Waiting for the bell in John's last class became an interminable wait that dragged on and on. Sherlock's words still repeated over and over again in his mind, and his appearance stuck in his brain alongside it, strangely. Sherlock was rather handsome, though. John wondered what he must look like in his street clothes when he was home. For some students, it was impossible to fathom some of them without a suit and tie, and sometimes seeing those kids in V-necks and cargo shorts turned out to be a traumatic experience. But John could imagine Sherlock pulling off any look perfectly; he was like that.

John could imagine his street clothes: purposely tattered, ripped, dark fabric with patches and pins everywhere, with black boots that were in the best shape of all of his items of clothing, the leather shiny and clean, all in perfect coordination with his dark head of cascading curls and those piercings (which John didn't even know if they were permitted at their school).

Then again, he did the uniform justice, as well. It was final, then. Sherlock Holmes can wear whatever he wants.

His face angled itself in a pleasant way that presented anyone he came in contact with a perfect complexion and an unbelievable set of cheekbones that were the main point of him, no matter how you looked at it, in John's opinion. His smile must be great, if anyone had ever seen it, which was a serious concern of John's. Maybe that boy he usually sat with, Greg. He seemed nice enough. Tried out for rugby—and didn't make it—but John had talked to him for a while, and he wasn't who he expected to hang around someone like Sherlock.

Sherlock also probably should have been considered too skinny, but the way he wore it made it hard to tell it was unhealthy. Still, it was very obvious to John once he saw him up close and saw his spindly limbs, with the skin on his hands so little that you could see the bones move, and a waist that John could probably fit his hands around and link his fingers together. Did he purposely not eat enough? Did he have enough food at home? Bloody hell, here he was, worrying about Sherlock's home life and wellbeing.

But what must it be like in that mind? That amazing, brilliant, astute mind that was pressurized constantly by the overflowing thoughts that flew in and out. Those deductions he did also must have taken so much of him. It would take a normal person hours to see all that, but for Sherlock, it took a few seconds, and that had to have some kind of effect on him.

The bell startled John as it interrupted whatever the teacher had been intoning about in monotone and binders and books got slammed shut loudly around him. If someone were to ask him what had been discussed today, he would be screwed. He spent the whole class thinking about Sherlock and what Sherlock knew about him and what John knew about himself. There was something bad wrong with him today.

John hoped to leave quickly and just go home, but then he felt a hand press down on his shoulder, and he realized that the whole rugby team was now walking home with him, which would tack on about twenty minutes to the five minute walk. Joy.

"Hey," he said, trying to be polite, at least.

He received a few mumbled greetings and then let the other conversations between them about their own drama fade out in his head as he walked quietly alongside his own thoughts. They would be too caught up in talking to each other that they wouldn't even notice he was silent, anyway. Hopefully, at least. Great, now he _sounded_ like Sherlock Holmes.

Speaking of which, as he walked towards the exit, leading the boys who stalked along behind him, he noticed a slender figure peregrinating through the crowd, curls bouncing, and John heard a few things jingling in his pocket. He watched as Sherlock impatiently waited for the group of girls in front of him to dismiss their congregation so he could leave. John debated whether or not he should say hello. Even a small wave would do. But how does one even greet a person like that? He was too elegant and refined for something 'normal', like what someone would say to John or what he would say back to them.

"Hey, Sherlock," was what slipped out in a rush, and Sherlock looked absolutely alarmed and surveyed the hall until his eyes met John's, and suddenly he lost the frown and wasn't pulling in his eyebrows. He didn't smile too brightly, but his face definitely softened, and he awkwardly waved, which mildly surprised John, as awkward was not a word that would normally be used to describe anything Sherlock did.

Directly after, he pushed through the other students to get to the door, even rushing past John, and he left quickly, putting up the collar of his coat as he did so.

"What is wrong with him?" John heard one of his teammates say, and he tried not to listen to any replies to that question, until one was directed towards him.

"Why did you say hi, anyway?" It was Mike who asked, thankfully, so John could answer without a snarky attitude because if it was Mike, it was likely only curiosity, unlike the other boys, who eagerly awaited a response to poke fun at.

John shrugged. "I was being nice. He's not so bad, you know." He didn't add a _You would like him!_ because they would hate him, even more so than they already did. What John couldn't figure out was why he didn't, as well. It wasn't like he had been particularly kind or open towards him, although he did put forth an effort to speak to him, so maybe that was a start. A strange start that hung a huge threat over his head because Sherlock obviously knew something that John didn't even know completely.

Maybe he and Sherlock could talk it out, but John doubted it. Sherlock didn't seem like the type to talk anything out; he just did whatever he wanted to do, and that was the end of it. He didn't need consultation because there was no one to consult with beforehand, apparently, which rose the question of his parents again. Were they aware of how special he was, or did they care at all? The thought of his parents disregarding him triggered an odd sensation of anger in John that he hadn't expected.

"See, that's always been your problem, John," another boy whose name John couldn't quite place at the moment, but apparently they knew each other well enough to be on a first-name basis and know each other's faults. "You want to see the best in people so much that you can't detect when someone's just not a good person."

It was kind of true, he supposed. John liked to see the best in people and hoped the best for them as much as he could, and he didn't really have any enemies because of it, although he had been disliked by several people for petty reasons like dating a guy's ex or dumping a girl's best friend, but it never turned into an all-out rivalry. He would learn that the person didn't like him, and he would simply just not interact with them. It was simple; he often found himself wondering why more people didn't do it.

"Maybe. But Sherlock's just . . . shy."

Even his team knew how stupid that sounded, because, from all angles, he got a look.

"I don't think that's shyness he's got going on there," Mike inputted. "I honestly think that there may really be something wrong with him."

"Even if there was," John quickly came back with, stopping for a second before continuing to walk, "would that give anyone the right to bully him?"

"No, no, you're right. I know where you're coming from. But he isn't very kind. He's cold and rude and doesn't know when he's said enough. It's hard being friends with someone like that," Mike said.

 _We've been doing it for years, Mike_ , John wanted to say, but he couldn't in front of the other boys, as it would only make matters worse. "Still," was what he said instead and didn't survive the word by anything else.

John stayed silent for the most part for the rest of the walk home. Once the topic of Sherlock ended, the same topics from before came back up, and he was able to fall into silence again and try to speed up the process of getting home because he just really wanted to go home. Sometimes he'd join in on their conversations, usually if he got included first, but he didn't feel like dealing with them today. It could be exhausting.

Without warning, when they finally got to John's house, he detached himself from the crowd and ran up his driveway, the other boys completely unaware that he was even gone. He messed around in his bag until he found his house key, which he had received as soon as he was old enough to stay home alone and didn't need someone to watch him after school.

He opened the door to find silence that mirrored his current mood. John quite liked the quiet, actually. Something about it comforted him in a way that people couldn't. Maybe it was just the people he had to comfort him, though. But it wasn't like he needed to be comforted too much. He did well doing it himself.

John didn't turn on the TV or any sort of electronic that had the sole purpose of making noise because he didn't need it. His parents would both be back by seven, so he had a few hours to himself that he desperately needed. He liked being popular and having friends—there had never been a time when he wasn't that kid—but sometimes it felt suffocating.

Taking out his phone, John realized that he had an unread text that was sent thirty minutes ago, almost directly after school let out. Sarah.

_Hey. :)_

John sighed when he read it. Not because it inconvenienced him and he didn't want to talk to her (but he really wanted to, either), but because he knew how he truly felt about her and how she felt about him, and they were two very different things. Regardless, he texted back, although he still wasn't sure if it was the right thing.

_Hey. -JW_

Seconds later, his phone buzzed again.

_Are you at home?_

_Yeah, I just got here. -JW_

That time it took more than a few seconds, and John could see her disappointed little pout.

_Oh. I wanted to see you after school._

The sad smiley face must have been implied. Sherlock's words reverberated in John's mind, and he suddenly was reliving it all.

_I'm sorry. -JW_

There was nothing wrong with apologizing. He owed her several apologies. A few minutes passed, and John thought for sure that it was done, but just as he was going to put his phone down, it vibrated in his hand, and he held it there, face down, for a few seconds before holding it back up.

_No, it's fine. Do you have plans tonight?_

All he had to do was type three simple letters. He could do this. He could lie.

_No. -JW_

Damn it.

John knew that Sarah wasn't stupid, and she knew that he wasn't stupid. She knew that he was completely aware of what she was insinuating; he knew it, too. And now it would be even harder to say no, if he could even say no at this point. He'd gotten her hopes up already.

Seconds later again, it buzzed again, and John braced himself for whatever it might say.

_Want to come over to my house?_

John physically had to set the phone down and rub his eyes and just breathe for a few seconds so he didn't scream or throw the phone across the room. All right, he told himself, he didn't have to do anything with her tonight, and if she offers, he can say no and explain how he really feels. That's the way to do it, right? Hopefully. He constantly battled with himself over what was the right thing to do, and this was just another prime example.

_Sure. -JW_

It didn't sound too eager, but then it didn't sound like he didn't want to go. Which he didn't, but if she knew that, she'd feel awkward, and he didn't want that.

John turned off his phone after that. He'd tell her it died, if she asked why he stopped replying. Then he lay down and shut his eyes, although he had no intention of taking a nap. He'd gotten himself into a mess. And Sherlock was right: it was all just to prove to himself that he could love a girl. He didn't even have to love her, per se, just like her, at least. But it wasn't going to be Sarah, that was for sure.

After a few more minutes of lying there, John finally picked up one of the throw pillows and screamed into it. It was a good release, surprisingly. John felt a bit better afterwards, and then he got back to just breathing.


	4. Bring You More Aggravation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote the first bit in the midst of the aftermath of a panic attack to calm myself down, so sorry if it seems different, although I don't think you can tell. 
> 
> Chapter title comes from "Don't Come Close" by The Ramones.

Greg returned to school the next day, much to Sherlock's relief. He expected another day of hell with the rugby boys and John. John was a boy who played rugby, but Sherlock didn't consider him apart of them anymore. He was different from them, and if he wasn't good at what he did, he likely wouldn't associate with them and vice versa. Not to say that John would associate with Sherlock if he weren't popular.

When Sherlock walked into class the next day, there Greg sat, slouched and looking bored, his brown hair sticking up in various spots like he hadn't brushed it. He didn't, actually. He had slept in late, as he hadn't adjusted back to the normal schedule of school, and he hadn't had time to brush his hair. And judging by the shaving cream under his jaw and the new cut near his jaw, he used the little time he had to quickly shave. Sherlock wouldn't tell him that he could already tell all of this and would listen to him tell his story in the dramatic way he always did.

John came to the door almost as soon as Sherlock did. He tried to deduce whether he'd done it on purpose, but judging by the way he let out a surprised 'oh' when they nearly collided and the way he tried to disguise his obvious blush, it was purely coincidental. John offered a small smile, but there was something else behind it. He wanted to tell Sherlock something, obviously. Something happened last night involving Sarah, Sherlock thought to himself, setting himself up for the rest of the story. She asked him out to dinner, where they would later have a quarrel. John broke up with her and went home that night, satisfied. It was pretty clear.

Sherlock stood back and let John go in first, and John thanked him by nodding his head once and then entering the classroom, where he was met with several shouts of things like "You did the right thing, mate," and "How did she handle it?" Smiling slightly to himself, Sherlock walked in and sat next to Greg, who raised his eyebrows.

"What was that about?" he asked, keeping his voice quiet.

"What do you mean?"

"Don't pretend like you don't know. Over there, just a few seconds ago. Something's up."

Sherlock snorted. "Since when can you do deductions?"

Greg's voice gave up on being quiet and got loud like it usually was. "Hey, I might not be on the same level as you, but I can do it, too. I'd make a fine detective. So would you. We could do it together."

"Or you could do it, and I could help you when you're out of your depth, which will happen often."

Greg replied by holding up his middle finger, clearly unabashed, even in his current environment. Sherlock smiled and actually showed his teeth, while the corners of Greg's lips twitched upwards. "But seriously, Sherlock, what was that with"—he looked around them and leaned in and lowered his voice to a whisper—"John Watson?"

Sherlock merely rolled his eyes and didn't bother whispering. "Lestrade, you do know that no one is listening in on this conversation, don't you? And all I did was let him pass through first, seeing as we both arrived at the same time, coincidentally. Although, if it would satisfy your need for appraisal on your observational skills, yes, I did speak with John yesterday while you were absent."

Greg leaned back and took in the information, rocking the chair back and forth on two legs instead of four. He looked rather unkempt with his messy hair and loose tie and unbuttoned blazer, but then it also looked somehow intentional, as if he hoped to get some attention for his admittedly good looks. "Really? I mean, he's a good bloke and all, but how the hell did he get you to talk to him? I know you don't do that to just anyone."

"It wasn't like we discussed all our hopes and dreams with each other," Sherlock said in a dry tone. "I pointed out something to him, a deduction. You're making it sound like we'll braiding each other's hair and listening to boy bands all night at a sleepover."

Suddenly, Greg set the chair back on four legs and rested his arms on the table, amused amazement evident on his face. "Wait, so you did your little deduction thing, and he didn't hit you or threaten your life? That's a first."

"He obviously took the information seriously. That girl all his friends keep asking about, that was what I mentioned to him, how she didn't really like him and all. He broke up with her last night." As much as it wasn't his business, Sherlock had to show off the fact that he helped John. He couldn't help but feel some pride in the decision that was made, whether it had anything to do with what he said at all.

"See? I've been telling people for years that you can be really useful if they'd just look past the how much of an arse you can be, but they never listen to me," Greg replied with the permanent smile he always seemed to carry, even in the most inappropriate situations.

"Thank you, Lestrade. I am forever indebted," Sherlock said, returning the sarcastic tone.

Greg opened his mouth to say more, probably to launch a completely different topic, which Sherlock was thankful for, but then Mrs. Abney came into the room, trying to silence the room, but failing for the first few minutes. Sherlock figured Greg must still have some traces from the flu because he didn't continue talking when she walked in. He was probably the only person she hated as much as Sherlock, if not more, and they didn't hesitate to show that it was mutual, although they had different means of hell-raising in the classroom.

Sherlock tried to pay attention to the lecture, but he eventually decided that he already knew it, and what he didn't know, he could teach himself in a matter of minutes, and he zoned out. Greg was also trying to pay attention beside him, but the only reason his head was still elevated was because he was cradling it with his hands, and his eyes were close to shutting, but he would quickly open them back up when he nearly fell asleep.

As a sort of impulse, Sherlock's eyes found their way over to John, who was hunched over taking notes avidly, clearly trying to block out the talking boys around him. John must have wanted to be something in the science field. Interesting. Sherlock would have guessed he would try to take his sports career further. But John would be a good doctor. Not only was he smart enough (which he really needed some reassurance of), but he was caring and kind, someone one could be comfortable with.

His eyes looked very serious and focused, which was clear even from this distance, and he kept scribbling notes down at a rapid pace, probably in a manner that only he would be able to read. Sooner or later he would have to feel Sherlock staring at him, wouldn't he? But until then, he continued to look at him, that same blinding light above him and doing the same unflattering things to his features as it did yesterday, but it was different up close. Sherlock learned that yesterday. John looked rather plain and average at first glance, but there was something far beyond his looks that made him different. He was a handsome boy, yes, but he was so much more than that.

Sherlock hadn't even realized that Greg was now staring at him, and suddenly he understood how John hadn't noticed, although he and John had not sensed anything for very different reasons. Blinking a few times and glancing at some other students he didn't actually care about to make it seem like he'd been studying everyone, Sherlock came out of his daze and met Greg's eyes innocently, like he didn't understand why he was smirking.

"I see you," he said. "Sitting there, staring at him. Do you even know what today's lesson was about?"

"You probably don't know, either, and you were actually making an effort to listen."

"Fuck you," Greg whispered without taking his eyes away from the board, tapping his pencil against his sheet of "notes", which consisted of a few messy words and drawings. "What makes you interested in him, anyway?"

Sherlock tore his eyes from John and looked ahead. "I'm not. Do you really see me with him? Don't be so stupid. He's—"

"Why is it, Mr. Holmes, that when I want you to talk, you refuse, but when it's not your place to speak, you always have something to say?" Mrs. Abney's voice broke from the lecture, and she stared pointedly at Sherlock and Greg.

Soon, all heads were turned to face Sherlock in the back of the room, including John, who held a soft gaze towards him that had that same apologetic look to it. John seemed to always be apologizing for things that weren't his fault as if it was his fault, which Sherlock found interesting.

Out of spite, Sherlock didn't answer and returned the glare in a mirroring fashion. She must have been expecting a real answer because silence filled the room soon after.

"I talked to him first," Greg interceded, trying to reason with her, something he often attempted and never seemed to succeed at.

"You know what, I don't even care," she said after a few seconds, raising her hands in something of either surrender or her confirmation of an early retirement. Sherlock kind of wanted to help her into retirement. Everybody won.

Although flustered, she carried on and got herself back on track and kept a close eye on the back of the room, therefore allowing everywhere else to become as talkative as they wished, but Sherlock didn't really care. Class would be over soon, anyway, and then he just had to go through a few more until . . . what, exactly? His parents he wanted nothing to do with and who wanted nothing to do with him in return? Neither place was ideal, but it was really all he knew.

xxx

Sherlock wasn't sure what to think when he found John Watson standing beside him as he was collecting his things to leave. He wasn't in a hurry at all, and a part of him secretly wished that John wouldn't be, either, but the other, more dominant part of his mind wanted him to get out of there as fast as he could. Maybe it was purely coincidental again, like the door meeting before Mrs. Abney's class.

Just as he started to leave, trying not to look at John so it would look like he just hadn't seen him because the weaker part of him really didn't want John to think badly of him, John stopped him with three words.

"You were right," he said, awkwardly shifting his weight from foot to foot, his eyes looking everywhere but Sherlock.

"I usually am," he said, earning a frown from John. Sherlock forgot that he wasn't talking to Greg, and John wasn't used to his arrogance enough to know that he wasn't always serious, though he usually was. It was probably the wrong way to have started their second official conversation. "Sorry. What do you mean?"

John took a second to regain his composure and lost the frown, but he still wasn't smiling. He hadn't arrived smiling, though. In fact, Sherlock had barely seen it on him all day. Maybe he was taking his current situation worse than Sherlock initially expected, which was that he would take it well, seeing as he didn't want to be in the relationship in the first place.

"Sarah, of course," he said, sounding suddenly nervous because his wording made it sound like Sherlock could have been right about something else about him, and he was not talking about that with anyone, let alone Sherlock. "I took your advice and ended it."

"You don't seem very happy about it. Why not?" He wasn't happy in the relationship, he wasn't happy out of the relationship. Perhaps John wasn't happy no matter what he did, and he felt like he couldn't do anything about it. Maybe he and Sherlock weren't so different after all.

John sighed, the typical 'you're impossible' sigh. Sherlock knew it when he heard it by now. "It's not exactly fun to make people cry while they're sitting in front of you."

"Well—"

"It's not fun for me, then. I guess I just feel kind of bad." John leaned against a wall and watched as a group of laughing students walked by. "I came over here to tell you that you were right, and then I was going to leave. Why am I telling you all this?"

"Why did you come in the first place? Doesn't it affect your image or whatever to be here with me, especially when you were the one who initiated the talk?"

John looked surprised and offended, his light eyebrows pulling in tight and his lips parting slightly. "You really think I care about that?"

Well, yes. And he did care about it, whether he knew it or not. The way he apologized for the people around him, the way he listens to whatever people tell him, the way he tried to please everyone. He cared about it, and he probably thought that being with Sherlock would serve as some sort of good deed that would earn him a metaphorical boy scout badge and a pat on the back.

"Don't you?" Sherlock asked in disbelief, although he tried not to sound too much like he was patronizing him.

"No, I don't. I really don't."

"But you did wait until your friends were gone before talking to me," Sherlock said and added a quick smile so he didn't sound too serious or angry.

John finally looked at Sherlock, and the sudden eye contact threw him off for a moment, but he was quick to retrieve the lost composure from where it slipped away at the sight of John's eyes locking with his. He refused to show it, though. John didn't even flinch, but Sherlock didn't know what he'd done. Most likely nothing too ridiculous because John's expression showed know sign of it.

"You just know everything, don't you?" John asked. Sherlock wasn't sure if it was a serious question or not, and even if it was, he wouldn't know how to respond in the presence of John. Had anyone else asked, he would have known, but there was just something about John that was set him apart from the rest. When Sherlock didn't answer, John's face softened, and the ghost of a smile appeared at his lips. A peace offering. "I need to go home," he said quietly in a rushed tone, and he flashed another smile before awkwardly walking away. Sherlock watched him as he walked away and smiled back, even though John wasn't there to see it.


	5. I Wish I'd Stayed Asleep Today

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title comes from "Close To Me" by The Cure, which actually isn't a punk band, but also happens to be my favorite band, so shh, let this one slide.

John's phone couldn't seem to stop its incessant buzzing. Ever since he'd gotten home, it had gone off, either one of his friends being annoying in general or girls who have been made aware of the fact that he was now single, which John had no doubt that the girls were directed towards him by the same boys who kept texting him.

He played along for a while and tried to keep up with them all, mostly resulting in him having the slowest moving conversations ever with all of them (because really, how was he supposed to respond to the ever popular acronym, 'wyd'? "Nothing much, just texting, like, seven other people. You?"), but the more he thought about it, the more he wanted to bore them until they all went away. But he eventually gave up on it and stopped texting altogether. He would use the excuse that it was dead again and hope the excuse wasn't getting too overused.

As he sat at dinner, the first one where his whole family was together this week, he tried eating quickly in order to escape the awkward silence that fell when his parents got together. This silence was unlike the comfort of when he was alone, and that was just it. Of course it felt comforting when he was alone, because there shouldn't be any noise when he wants to be alone. But there should be noise when they got together, especially when they had barely seen each other.

The television could easily be watched from the dining room, and that was really the only thing occupying the room with sound other than cutlery against plates. John tried watching, but he never much cared for the telly. Neither were his parents, apparently, as they had left it on the news, where it usually stayed. Sometimes it was interesting, but not on a slow day. All it had been today was mostly filler stories that his parents were watching for the pure sake of focusing their attention on something other than each other.

John's eyes flicked up when he heard the news about another state in America legalizing gay marriage. But his eyes quickly fled back to the safety of his shoes when he saw the displeased looks on both of their faces. He would just pretend like he wasn't paying attention and give no opinion, and them hopefully they wouldn't have a discussion about it.

"What is this world coming to?" his mother murmured, shaking her head.

I know, right? I mean, basic human rights? For humans? How absurd, John wanted to say, but he figured it wouldn't be in his best interest to say anything. Because if he mentioned this, he'd end up talking about Harry, and the only real rows he had with his parents were about Harry. On most other subjects, they could agree to disagree, but not this one. One thing would lead to another, and the end result would not be good.

"I wish I knew, Annette," his father replied quietly, cutting some meat. He turned to John, and a million excuses to leave popped into his mind at that moment. If only they'd been present a few minutes ago. "So, John, I understand that rugby season is starting back up. How are things?"

John was slightly relieved, although he knew these recycled questions were only because they remembered that they had a child, and this child was sitting there and hadn't spoken in a while because no one spoke to him first. But he went along with it anyway. Anything to change the subject.

"Uh, we're all right. I mean, we've only just started again, so I think once everyone gets back into routine, we'll be great. Got some new kids this year, too. They're pretty good, I think. You know, potential and all that." His voice faded out on the last few words, as they always did for some reason when he talked to them. This was the usual answer, something vague and simple. Also an understatement. The season was actually already looking to be one of their all-time bests, and that was saying something, seeing as rugby was his school's most prized sport.

But he couldn't talk about that with his parents. Neither of them understood the game, and the last time they attended a game was a few years ago. He'd probably just get a nod and a forced-sounding "Good job, John," if he were to talk about it with them.

"Oh, well, that's great, John," his mother said with a tired smile. "I suppose with all that exercise you're in well enough shape to walk to school tomorrow, right? Tomorrow's busy." As always. John did prefer to walk, though, as opposed to the painfully awkward car ride there, and when they got there, if that weren't enough, his friends tended to shout rather distasteful things that his parents could certainly hear.

"Yeah, Mum, it's fine," he said, getting up to leave the table and mumbling something about taking a shower before he walked away quickly, feeling his parents' eyes on him as he went, and he was pretty sure he heard his father say that he'd never seen a gawkier teenager in his life.

xxx

The nightmares returned that night. Sherlock drifted off at about two in the morning, but it only lasted a few hours before he jumped awake in a rude awakening, shaking and covered in sweat. It happened often, and he'd learned to just accept it over time, but he still didn't know how to deal with it. Because it was like every other night he got sent back to that night, and it was happening all over again. Sometimes it was a repeat of it, while other times the nightmare only covered certain aspects of it. This was one of those. It was the one where he couldn't get away in time, the trapped, suffocating feeling that occasionally came back to haunt him.

Sherlock sat up and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. Rubbing his eyes, he tried to erase the dream from his mind, but thinking about not thinking about it only made things worse and only caused him to think about it more. The clock read 6:39. He would have to get up for school soon. Except he wasn't going. Not today; he was too shaken up to recover quickly enough. It would have been easier if he he had woken up earlier, and then he could have been able to calm himself, perhaps.

It wasn't like skipping a day of school was a new thing for him. He knew how to get away with it by now. All he had to do was get ready like any other day and then head out the door like he was going to school, and then he just didn't go. Simple enough.

Sherlock slowly laid back down, although he didn't try to go back to sleep. One time it had gotten to the point where he was too afraid to sleep at all out of fear of having the nightmares, and he would go days without sleep, but he eventually started doing it anyway, regardless of the feelings it brought along with it.

Everything was so dark and silent, and Sherlock closed his eyes and took it in, trying to let it soothe his nerves and his heart that was still beating a bit fast, even if it was nothing compared to what it was when he first woke up.

When it was finally time for him to get up, he kept in the secrecy of his room as he got dressed and went out the door without a word, but he did make sure that someone noticed he was gone. Usually when he skipped a day, he'd spend it wandering around the city, and no one ever really noticed him, not even the people who worked with his parents. Which was a good thing, actually. Sherlock didn't really care if they talked about him at work or not. He wouldn't be surprised if some of their co-workers didn't even know they had another son, as mentioning him would ruin their reputation. But none of that mattered, he would remind himself constantly. It did him no good to care.

xxx

No one was awake when John left for school. So much for being busy. Then again, he supposed they deserved to relax every once in a while, with how much they worked. It did make him feel guilty sometimes, he would admit, that maybe they wouldn't be so overwhelmed and seemingly unhappy if they had never had children at all. They didn't act like they wanted children, and maybe they had wanted them when they were younger, when they were both in love and didn't understand what being a parent entailed. It was what scared John most about the future, just the idea that he would end up with someone he didn't really love and that he was wrong about everything he thought he wanted.

He ended up taking the longer route to school, just because he'd left a bit earlier than usual, and he didn't want to stick around home for any longer than necessary, and he certainly didn't want to get to school early and have to listen to his friends for longer than he needed. So he went through London at a slower pace than normal, which was rushing because he was more often than not late.

Things were only slightly hectic on the route he went on, and John was really only accompanied by some other kids around his age and adults on their way to work. It was a quieter part of the city with buildings that must have looked different in whoever built it's mind. Drastically different. It was kind of sad to see them; the buildings were thought out to be so much more and have so much more, and for no apparent reason, it didn't deserve it in the public eye.

John didn't know any of the kids walking along the pavement either in front or behind him, and he didn't think they went to his school, so he kept his head down and kept walking in silence and stayed near the buildings, some of which scraped by his arm, he was so close. He wasn't paying much attention to his surroundings until he noticed a figure placed elegantly between two buildings, his back against the wall of one.

John nearly tripped and fell when he saw who it was and silently prayed he didn't see him. It wasn't that he didn't want to talk to him, or that he thought Sherlock would try to talk to him, for that matter, but he never knew how to act around him.

Sherlock clearly saw him coming and instantly jerked his head away and looked in the opposite direction of John. He couldn't just walk by and not say anything. Not when they had made obvious eye contact, and certainly not after their weird encounter yesterday. The closer he got, the more he could notice about Sherlock. For one, he was not in his uniform. Most of him was buried under a long coat, but from what John could see under that, he had on red and black plaid jeans and a black shirt. Just as expected. Although he wasn't in uniform, so that meant the obvious.

"Hey," John said. He had meant to say it and keep walking and let Sherlock join him if he wanted, but he realized that he'd stopped, which meant . . . He didn't even know at this point.

"Hello," he answered awkwardly, a confused look on his face. John took another look and noticed a pack of cigarettes in the pocket of his jeans. John didn't smoke himself, and none of his friends did, either (they seemed to prefer alcohol), so it made him oddly uncomfortable to see him with them.

John cleared his throat. "So what are you doing? I mean, you're not dressed for school, so," he added to the conversation. He must be making himself look like an idiot in front of him, even though he knew very well what he was doing, but Sherlock's face didn't show it. Good. He was afraid for a second that Sherlock might comment on his ignorance like he did for everyone else. But he shouldn't separate himself from 'everyone else', should he? People were all the same to Sherlock. Right?

"I'm not going to school today," he said calmly.

"Why not?" John asked.

"Because I don't feel like it." Fair enough. There seemed to be more to it than that. A mental health day, perhaps? Sherlock must have picked up on his skepticism because he added, "I'm sure you wish for the same. You're barely hanging on anymore when it comes to the people in your life, and you haven't missed a day of school in years."

Typical of him to turn the conversation on him when things began to be more focused on him. But he wasn't wrong. And it wasn't until he said it had he noticed how true it really was. It wasn't an open invitation, though, he had to remind himself. If Sherlock wanted a day away from the people at school, he wanted to be alone, and John was not any more special than the other kids.

"Well, no. School's important."

Sherlock scoffed at that, which John had expected. "Your sanity is important, as well. The way you're going, you'll be institutionalized before you get to university."

John smiled faintly. "We can't all be like you and just be able to know everything."

"Well, of course not. Then we wouldn't need schooling at all."

He rolled his eyes, but kept smiling anyway. "You're an arrogant sod."

"Spend the day with me."

John blinked a few times and fell into a silence as he tried to wrap his brain around what he thought he just heard. "Sorry, what?"

"You. Spend the day. With me. Away from school. It'll just be one day."

Sherlock almost sounded genuinely concerned for John's current stressed state. He'd been there, John concluded, and that was why he was giving him special treatment. Because he understood something another human felt for once. Well, he'd accept it anyway.

With trepidation, John answered a quiet "Okay," which Sherlock knew he'd get.


	6. Compassion Heals While Duplicity Kills

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title comes from "The Way I Feel" by Rancid.

John grew more and more reluctant as each second passed after agreeing to spend the day with Sherlock. Not only would he be missing a day of school and therefore resulting in him having to construct a series of lies and having to pull it off, but it was also Sherlock. And for whatever reason, Sherlock had chosen to warm to him and let him in, and John still didn't know what that meant. He didn't make him feel near as uncomfortable as his rugby mates did, but something about him made him feel . . . weird inside. It felt like his insides were climbing up his throat, leaving the rest of him weak.

Why would he, a boy known for being cold and distant, want anything to do with a boy so ordinary? That was what John couldn't understand. There was nothing special about him. In fact, he was probably one of the clichés that Sherlock was so bored by and that he hated so much. But he must see something different, and that was what was terrifying John.

Sherlock continued to stand and look off in the distance, and John thought he'd completely forgot about him for a while. After a few seconds of silence, he finally moved and began to take out the pack of cigarettes. Just as he took them out, he eyed John and studied his face. He raised his eyebrows and lowered his hand.

"Smoking makes you uncomfortable," he stated without a doubt, although it sounded like he was also asking for further information.

"No, not at all," John stuttered out unconvincingly.

With a sigh, Sherlock walked a few feet away from John and tossed the pack in the nearest trash bin. John was sure of how surprised and confused he looked, but he couldn't help it. Sherlock returned to his original spot and acted as though he hadn't moved at all.

"Why did you do that?" John asked rather sharply.

"Obviously you hold some sort of resentment towards the mere thought of things such as smoking and alcohol and drugs. Particularly the alcohol. You've never personally done any of them for specific reasons, the same reasons why they make you uncomfortable, but you're still bothered by them. Need I go on?"

It was his own way of asking if he went too far. He and John both knew the reasons, and just like the time in the classroom, he was holding off on announcing it out loud. But why not him? He didn't care if he embarrassed anyone else, and he certainly didn't care what other people thought of him when he did that. John wasn't going to press on the idea too much, though, and he was just going to see where the day went and not expect any sort of explanation. There was no reason for why Sherlock did anything he did, as far as John was concerned.

"No, you've gotten your point across," John mumbled back.

Sherlock looked confused. "Well, don't get angry. You asked a question, and I answered it. Partially."

"I'm not angry," John replied immediately after. "Just . . ."

"I struck a nerve," Sherlock said quietly, as if he were talking to himself rather than John, which he probably was. This was confirmed when he returned to his normal voice and looked at John with those eyes. John always wanted to look away when they made eye contact. His eyes were just so piercing, and he felt something strange come over him every time he saw them. But he managed to pull himself together and look back into his eyes, catching his own stricken reflection in them. "Where do you want to go?"

John hadn't given it any thought. He figured Sherlock would have planned out his entire day off and was just going to let John tag along with him. "I don't . . . I don't know."

Sherlock almost rolled his eyes, but he caught himself, although it was very obvious what he was trying not to do. "Come on," he said, already walking.

John watched him go for a few seconds, just staring at him and wondering what he'd gotten himself into, and when it was clear that Sherlock wasn't going to wait for him, he jogged over to him until he caught up with him, staying a half-step behind him. He was trying not to stare because it would probably make him look infinitely creepier if Sherlock noticed him gazing over at him from the corner of his eye, but he was just so goddamn drawn to looking at him. He was gorgeous, really. And interesting. It had been a while since John had encountered the two at the same time in a person.

"Where are we going?"John asked after a few minutes of silence.

He almost thought that Sherlock hadn't heard him and was going to repeat the question, but then his deep voice cut through the nippy morning air. "I don't know. Clearly neither of us were going to come up with anything back there, so now we're walking."

"And is this what you normally do when you cut school?"

He shook his head. "I have other things I do, but nothing you would be interested in."

John raised an eyebrow out of curiosity. "Really? Enlighten me, what am I not interested in?"

"Most of the things I'm interested in."

Most. What the hell was that supposed to mean? And he didn't even answer the question. Also, if they barely shared any of the same interests, why would he want to be around him? John had no reply, not in a way where his words wouldn't come out wrong. If he did say something, it would be something like "You make no sense" or something equally stupid. That wasn't how you talked to Sherlock; he wouldn't understand the exaggeration or sarcasm.

So John just let Sherlock lead him around the city, obviously uninterested by everything in it. John didn't really blame him. He didn't like it when there weren't a lot of people his age, it was boring, although that definitely wasn't the reason why Sherlock was bored. He just didn't seem to be engaged in the world, period. It was rather worrisome, the more John thought about it. Nothing was keeping him grounded, nothing was there to anchor him to the world. Nothing to live for.

He kind of knew the feeling. Everything in his life felt artificial, at times. It was weak and hollow and could fall apart at any given moment, like a sandcastle before the tides came in. He had to watch every move he made and every word he said so he could protect his little world from crumbling, and the worst part was that all it would take are a few words to do so.

But the weirdest part was that he relaxed around Sherlock. He'd known some of his friends for nearly his whole life, and here was this guy he'd only been talking to for two days. It was because he didn't have to put on an act for Sherlock. It was useless, after all. He saw through everything, and in a way, it was more comforting than anything to John, to have someone understand without him having to say a word. Sherlock just knew, and he didn't need any explanation as to why he was a certain way or why he did things the way he did.

John wasn't sure if he wished he could do what Sherlock does or not. He just wanted to know what he would see when he saw Sherlock—that was the main thing. But then he also didn't want to know. He liked the mystery of Sherlock Holmes, the parts he couldn't see right away and might never see at all.

"Have you thought of anywhere yet?" Sherlock asked casually.

John glared. "You mean we're still walking aimlessly? How long has it been? Twenty minutes, at least."

"Sixteen. And yes, we are because I wanted to see if you would suggest anything. I find it especially interesting that a boy like you doesn't take it upon himself to do only what he wants. The boys you fraternize with would jump at the chance, but you're afraid to ask out of fear of what I might think. You think I'll be quiet about it like you and have a horrible time, and then you'll feel guilty."

"Can you not do that?" John hesitantly asked, and Sherlock responded with a confused look as if he had no idea what he was referring to. He probably didn't. This was all perfectly normal for him. John closed his eyes and sighed. "That thing you do, whatever you want to call it. Where you see right through a person. I mean, don't get me wrong, it's brilliant. You're brilliant." Sherlock tried not to smile and show how his breath obviously caught in his throat at the words. "But I don't know if I want to hear it all about myself."

He took in the information before turning and mumbling, "Interesting." John rolled his eyes.

"I think I have a place in mind now," Sherlock said. "But if you agree, please don't faint or vomit or something else irrational. It's not like he's still alive or anything."

John took a deep breath before following, for God knows why.

xxx

Lawrence Padmore died in his flat a month ago due to natural causes, John was informed. Sherlock had said 'natural causes' as if he were suspicious about it to a certain extent. To John, it only made sense for that to be the cause of death. He wasn't young, he lived alone, had no living family, never had any visitors. He isolated himself from the world, basically. It made sense. But nothing was that simple in Sherlock's eyes.

He wasn't interested investigating his abandoned flat, so he said. He merely wanted somewhere quiet where they could stay for a while. Most others would have picked a park or some pretty little spot hidden away from the city, but no. This was Sherlock Holmes, and he found peace in the home of a dead man.

John couldn't figure out what had led him to believe this was a good idea. It was disrespectful and illegal and everything John never did. He didn't like to do bad things. Well, he'd never actually done anything bad, so he didn't like the idea of doing bad things, rather. Just the thought of what his parents would think. It was the second bad thing he'd done all day, as he was already skipping school. But he went along with it.

Oddly enough, there was a certain rush that went into sneaking in that sped John's heart rate up. He might have been enjoying it; he couldn't tell. All he knew was that he was now in a dark, cold building with Sherlock Holmes, who was already slinking around a corner. John had to quickly rush after him. He wasn't up for being alone in this place. It just felt so wrong. But so good at the same time. It was a release, that was for sure.

By the time John caught up with Sherlock, he was perched on a dusty office chair. That's where they were, an office. Sherlock watched John as he walked in with interest, as if he were awaiting his response to the place he'd picked.

"Well," John said, a bit unsettled by the eerie echo speaking in there gave off. "We just broke into a dead man's flat."

But Sherlock was too preoccupied with looking around. Something had caught his eye, something probably only have could see, and now he was looking all around with a determined look on his face.

"I need to see the body," he whispered to himself, although John still heard.

He shifted awkwardly before clearing his throat lightly. "It's buried by now."

"Of course it is. Where else would it be? I'm just stating what would help me. I can do it without the body, then."

"Sorry, you can do what, exactly?"

Sherlock looked at him with face to tell him to stop being so slow. "To find out how he really died. 'Natural causes', what does that even mean, other than it wasn't murder, supposedly. No, there's a much bigger picture here."

"Did we really come all this way to determine how this man died?"

Sherlock stopped instantly and sat back down. "Right," he said quietly. "Talking. Getting to know each other. Other social niceties. So . . . hello."

John couldn't help but smile. He really had no idea how to talk to someone, but he was trying. And he was trying with John. He wasn't the type to put forth this much effort for just anyone. "Hello." He paused. "You know what I think? I think you need to tell me about yourself, since you already know everything about me."

"I don't know everything about you," Sherlock mumbled.

"Oh, yeah? What do you not know?" Sherlock didn't answer. "Exactly. Now, about you. Just give me something."

He stopped to think for a while. There had to be plenty to tell about himself; he was just deciding what he could and couldn't tell. "What do you want to know?"

So many things. "How about why you decided to skip school today? The real reason."

Sherlock took a deep breath and looked in thought again. He premeditated every word that came out of his mouth. John just wondered if he would give a full answer or something totally cryptic. "When I said that I didn't feel like it, I meant it, in the most basic terms. Sometimes I feel that I am, for lack of a better word, unstable to be in a place such as that. I need somewhere quiet, like this, to collect myself."

Only slightly cryptic, then. John wouldn't pry, though. He was lucky enough to get that much out of him, and who was he to push him into talking about something he obviously didn't want to talk about?

"Okay, yeah, I think that's a good idea. Smart." He didn't know what else to say.

Sherlock shrugged. "It's human nature to need to be alone sometimes. But no one ever considers it and expects us to operate as some kind of conformity machine. Look at you, for example." It was never a good thing when he said that. "You hate your rugby teammates, and no offense, but they hate you, as well. But you still talk to them because that's what you've been taught to do."

John figured as much that they didn't like him. He never had liked, but he had never been sure about them. "Does everyone hate me?" he asked with a half-smile.

"I don't," Sherlock replied, dead-serious.

He froze for a second. "Oh," he managed to say.

"Because you're different. And not boring." He hadn't even asked why, but Sherlock just knew somehow. And different how? Was that a good thing or a bad thing if it was coming from him?

John smiled sheepishly and leaned against the doorframe, looking at his surroundings more closely. Nope. He still saw nothing but a normal office, no signs of murder. He didn't know how Sherlock did it. He really was extraordinary.

"Why would he keep a record player in here?" John asked upon seeing it, changing the subject from him.

Sherlock smiled. "I like how you don't ask why he would have one at all, but rather about where he chose to put it."

"Well, he was older. I guess he would have been used to them."

"Mm. I suppose so. He does have quite a lot of music," he said, walking over to it and combing through the various records. John went and joined him, and they were standing the closest they'd ever been, which strangely made it harder to breathe for John. He could smell cigarette smoke slightly on him mixed in with some light aftershave. It was just what he imagined him to smell like, which surprised John when he realized he'd been wondering what he would smell like.

"The Velvet Underground," John abruptly said, and Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him. John picked up one of the records and presented it to Sherlock. "It's a band from the 60s, although they broke up in the early 70s. Uh, they're pretty good."

"You like music from the 60s? I always assumed you'd listen to newer music."

"Yeah, well, I was raised on this kind of stuff, so."

"What song, then?"

John blinked, confused. "What?"

"Let's see if it works."

"I guess 'Pale Blue Eyes'. My parents always loved that one."

Sherlock played it. The record was in pretty good shape, along with the rest of them, and all Sherlock did to the record player itself was blow some dust off of it. He stood and listened for a few seconds.

"It's very slow," he said.

"It's a ballad. You listen to it to relax or . . . slow dance, I don't know."

Sherlock smirked, and John saw something in his eyes that made his heart flutter. "Really? You slow dance with people?"

John smiled. "Only once, at this party." Which was a disaster. Neither of them knew what they were doing, and John kept accidentally stepping on her feet. She never talked to him again after that night. It was kind of funny to think about now. "Let's just say it ended in a way that I never did it again."

"You probably had the wrong partner," Sherlock said, and the next thing John knew, Sherlock was holding out his hand.

John just stared at his long fingers and smooth, pale skin, eyes wide. He wasn't sure how long he stood there before he finally took it. He wanted to test if his skin was really as soft as it looked. He felt an electric rush when he first took it, but he eventually settled into the the skin that was, indeed, as soft as it looked, and cool to the touch. Sherlock's other hand found its way to John's waist, to which he blushed profusely at. Sherlock smiled as he noticed the blush, which only made it worse.

He watched their feet for a while, desperately trying not to step on his feet. But he was also avoiding looking up where Sherlock's eyes would be. Friends didn't do this, John kept telling himself, but he ignored that because he actually liked this. Which was terrifying.

"I can see why you like this song. It's nice," Sherlock said lowly into John's ear, and the sound of his voice gave him chills.

John looked up for the first time and intended to look away as soon as he did, but he was stopped by Sherlock's eyes, mesmerized by them. Sherlock seemed to be caught, as well, and it was as if he was looking right into him instead of through him.

Yeah. Friends didn't do this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> http://m.youtube.com/watch?v=PK4DeMYtumc
> 
> Here's the song they danced to. It's like the ultimate slow dance song, in my opinion.


	7. I Don't Know What Can Be Done About It

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title comes from "Cheat" by The Clash.
> 
> Warning: Homophobic language/Homophobia in general.

Dancing. He was dancing. With Sherlock Holmes. Or at least, he had been.

After the exchange, it became awkward, resulting in John stuttering out some kind of excuse (which had probably sounded like, "I . . . I have to go. A t-thing. I have one"), and he fled, cheeks flushed and his feet left feeling like they weren't quite connecting with the ground, all while he felt the need to steady himself before he keeled over face-first onto the pavement.

So he went to school for the remaining few hours, checking in as late and trying his best to stay focused. It was a bad idea to go back, seeing as he was being bombarded with questions as to where he'd been and why he was late. He made up something about a doctor's appointment, although he knew he sounded far off and distracted, mostly because he was. He didn't feel like talking to anyone there. He wanted to talk to Sherlock. Kind of. He also very vehemently didn't want to talk to him.

John left school without saying goodbye to anyone and walked home quickly, jacket tight around him. He could see his breath collect in front of him when he exhaled as a visible puff, which helped him stabilize his breathing. It was like he'd forgotten how to breathe all day. He kept his head down and his hands stuffed in the front pockets of his jacket, even putting the hood up for good measure, in case someone he knew saw him. Someone like Sherlock.

He was pleased when he saw that neither car was in his driveway when he got home and pulled out his key, trying a few times to jab it in before it went in. His hands were shaking, whether it was a result of the cold or not. He opened the door to that comfortable silence he'd been needing all day.

Throwing his bag down, he collapsed on the sofa and rubbed his eyes, letting his hands linger over his eyes for a while. What would have happened if he hadn't left? That was the real question. And he would likely never know, and that was fine by him. He couldn't be with Sherlock, even if he wanted to, and he didn't want to. Did he? It was a mess, a tangle of thoughts and emotions too scrambled to decipher anything about it.

On one hand, he had Sherlock. Gorgeous, smart Sherlock who was a breath of fresh air and made John feel relaxed and safe, who was exactly what he needed. But on the other hand, he had the destruction. He feared hurting Sherlock more than he feared Sherlock hurting him, actually. He was more capable, given his life and who was in it, and it would only bring trouble to both of their lives. But he liked trouble, and Sherlock liked it, too, apparently.

By the time the phone rang, John had a finger pushed against his temple and a frown settled on his face. He was thinking about Sherlock and if it could really work. Now that he knew those hands, of course he could imagine them around him, his hands moving down his back slowly, while John had his own hands tangled in Sherlock's curls. Their bodies pressed against each other. John's bottom lip getting caught between Sherlock's teeth . . .

He groaned and went to get it, not even bothering with looking at the caller ID and raising it to his ear.

"Hello?" John answered, sounding short and subtlety irritated.

"Hey, I heard you came in late today; I didn't see you." Tristan. Great. John hated that guy. He knew Sherlock. Or at least, he was there the day John officially met Sherlock, insulted him, and, to John's knowledge, has used quite distasteful words towards Sherlock on several occasions beforehand. Yeah, he wasn't going to confide in Tristan.

"I went to the doctor and still didn't feel well after, so I left as soon as the bell rang," he lied. But he wasn't going to apologize or anything. He still didn't like him.

There was a pause. "Oh. Well, I hope you feel better," he said, although it sounded hollow. "Holmes wasn't there, either. Good thing, too. He's always staring in my direction, and it's creepy. It's like he's plotting my murder or something."

Or course he would just be randomly brought into conversation so quickly. Unless Tristan knew something and brought him up intentionally. Maybe it was John being paranoid, but he sounded vaguely suspicious.

"Does he? My back is turned away from him, so I can never see him." And it was a difficult task to not crane his neck every two seconds just to get a glimpse of him. Did he really stare, though? Tristan usually sat in front of John, and he seriously doubted that was who he kept looking at . . .

"It's true. He freaks me out. I don't know why you even say a word to him."

John felt suddenly defensive, and he hoped he didn't show it in his tone of voice, which sounded admittedly angry, even if it was subdued. "Because I like him," he accidentally snapped instead of said. "I mean, he's a good person and nice to talk to, and I'm not saying you should give him a chance or anything, but still," he added, sounding calmer.

"Yeah, I'll bet he's sweet as candy," Tristan replied sarcastically with a sniff. "Honestly, John, I know it's in your nature to be nice to everyone, but come on. He's a freak. And a fag, too, did you know? He had a boyfriend a while ago, it was disgusting."

John was glad this was a phone conversation and not in person because he would have been done right then and Tristan would have a black eye. He was silent for so long, just breathing and trying not to yell, that Tristan asked if he was still there. "Yeah. Still here." He was nearly talking through gritted teeth. "Who was the guy, anyway? I don't remember anyone saying anything about it."

"Early this year, I think. Some guy he knows. I heard he was in uni already, as if it's not fucking gross enough. But yeah, it happened. I think they ended it. Someone heard Holmes whinin' about it to his friend, you know, the one with the messy hair, so I guess not even someone who wanted to date him in the first place can't handle all that."

John was seething with anger at this point, desperately wanting to use a selective, colorful string of words towards him. "Or maybe it just didn't work. It's not like you don't have any exes," he said coolly instead, trying to sound as composed as possible.

"I guess so, but I'm nothing like him." That was for sure. "But anyway, the reason I called in the first place was to tell you that I found you a new girlfriend."

"Did you? Who?" John asked, although he was not interested in the least. Truth be told, the only person he was interested in was also the one person he couldn't have. Well, he could, but he was scared, honestly. That was the most basic feeling and the thing it all came back to. Fear.

"Girl I met at a party. She goes to this all-girl boarding school, and she's hot and cool and doesn't like me," Tristan explained. Can't imagine why she wouldn't like you, John thought to himself. "So, I thought, how about John? He needs someone, apparently, because he's been hanging around freaks—scratch that, _a_ freak—and I'm worried about him. Will you text her if I give you her number? Because I've already given her yours."

"Sure, fine. Whatever," John said. And then Tristan gave him the number and, thankfully, hung up. John didn't text, not immediately. He would later because Tristan probably told her he would, and he didn't want to look like that asshole who thinks he's above everyone else. But he wouldn't flirt or say anything romantic. Not that he was saving it for anyone, but he didn't want anyone else having it yet.

xxx

No one waited up at home, generally, for Sherlock after school. Or "school", as it was today. Neither of his parents really cared if he stayed out until dark. Hell, they didn't care if he snuck in through the window at one in the morning. Because they wanted him to surround himself with people, and for whatever reason, they thought him staying out meant a large group doing things only large groups of friends did. But in truth, it usually meant smoking with Greg behind a defaced, rundown building because no one would catch them there, and the adults who did walk by didn't care about two kids smoking.

Sherlock had texted Greg to meet him there—and to bring cigarettes—after school, which was normal, apart from the fact that Sherlock always had his own cigarettes. He needed something normal today. He hadn't expected his day to go the way it did, and he didn't regret one bit of it. But still. It was a hell of a lot to process.

Greg rounded the corner and shook the pack of cigarettes, now dressed in a leather jacket and white T-shirt because he knew better than to show up here wearing his school uniform, learned through experience.

"Here are your fucking cigarettes," he said, handing them to Sherlock. "I had to ask that creepy old guy to buy them for me, and when he gave them to me, he offered me a ride in his van. A fucking van, Sherlock. I ran for like ten minutes straight. That's a lot for a guy like me."

Sherlock smiled and took one out almost immediately. "I apologize. I had to throw mine out."

"Why? Parents?"

"No. Lestrade, aren't you going to be a detective? Can't you tell where I've been?"

He groaned. "Ugh. Fine. Well, you weren't at school, obviously, so you skipped. You haven't been home or seen your parents all day because you just admitted it—thanks, by the way—so I'm gonna say you threw them out because of a cop."

Sherlock took a drag and grinned again. "No. Not even close. But I wouldn't have expected you to get it, anyway. I don't even know if you'll believe me. Then again, I don't know if I can tell you."

Greg rolled his eyes and smiled. "You wouldn't have dragged me out here if you weren't going to tell me whatever it is. And give me a cigarette; I paid for the damn things." Sherlock held the pack out and let Greg take one, letting him light it and stick it in his mouth before he said, as if he were talking with a pen between his teeth, "Well, talk, then. Must be good, you can't stop smiling."

Not doubting it, Sherlock took an extra long and slow drag before starting, just to annoy Greg a little more. "Will you tell anyone? It's not that I would care, but the person in question might."

Greg took the cigarette out and looked like he might laugh at the idea of him telling. "Who am I going to tell? My mum?"

"I decided to skip today after a bad night," Sherlock began, and it needed no other explanation because Greg knew the nature of what that meant. ("Sorry," Greg had added after those words before Sherlock spoke the next, to which he shrugged off.) "I was standing there when I saw someone on their way to school. I looked away in hopes, but not really, that he wouldn't see me, but he did, and he said, and I quote, 'Hey.' Such a simple, indolent word, but still something, nevertheless. And it went from there, some mindless chatter, and I invited him to spend the day with me, and thus began my day with none other than John Watson."

Greg had looked confused for the whole story, but realization flooded his face when the name was used. "Oh, fuck, where is this story going?" he asked with a now matching grin.

"We walked for a while, which was uneventful and otherwise not worth mentioning any other details about. However, after, I took John to the home of a dead man—"

"You're a true romantic at heart, Sherlock Holmes," Greg interrupted.

"I'm getting to the part worth telling if you'll let me," Sherlock responded. "But we were in his office—oh! Which, by the way, it was murder—and John finds a record player with this song from the sixties, and we danced."

Greg had his mouth open. "You mean, like, prom style dance?" Sherlock nodded. "Well, shit, my little boy's all grown up."

Sherlock laughed softly. "I really don't believe he likes me, though. He left rather abruptly, and I haven't seen him since, and—"

"Hey, you may be able to read some random person, but it's not all black and white to you when it comes to how people feel about you. He left because he was freaked out because he likes you and doesn't want anyone to know. It's obvious."

"I suppose you could be right," Sherlock mumbled. "I won't know for sure until I see him again. Maybe not even then."

"Well, whatever you think, I know that he likes you, and you obviously like him, so . . ."

And that night, when Sherlock came home after the smell of cigarettes had faded enough for him to get past his parents, he bolted straight for the stairs.

"How was school?" his mother asked, not even turning around and a sigh behind her voice, that same exasperated voice she always used for Sherlock.

"It was fine," Sherlock said as fast as he could as he ran up the stairs, and he heard his mother drop whatever book she'd been holding, and he knew she whipped her head around to him, but he was already gone up to his room.


	8. Hoping It Will All Come True

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, look who didn't take eighteen years to update. I actually wrote this out of order and did the easy parts first, which might sound weird, but I mean, it works.
> 
> Chapter title comes from "Like A Secret" by Jawbreaker.

Sherlock acted as though last night's encounter with his mother hadn't happened at all, and she must have told his father about it because when they saw that he was disregarding it, they did the same so they weren't pushing him, but there was a new glint of hope in their eyes, like some life had been restored. Sherlock liked to see it, he admitted to himself as he nibbled a rather pathetic breakfast consisting of toast he'd made himself because he figured it would be the fastest.

After he was done, he slung his bag over his shoulder and left before anyone could say goodbye because he'd hate to ruin that look they had. It wasn't their fault they were so oblivious and negligent to what went on in his life, and they showed no signs of wanting to change that, so why should he?

He walked his way to school and didn't see any signs of John along the way. Either he was avoiding him or he'd been driven to school like he usually was. He tried convincing himself it was the latter over and over again, but he wouldn't be able to put his mind at ease until he saw him.

Since he arrived early, he took a detour through the building and sat in an otherwise unoccupied mezzanine. A few footfalls of other early students skittered around him and past him, not even seeing him, as far as he was concerned. Greg would be here as soon as the bell rang, if not a few minutes after, and the only other person Sherlock would talk to wouldn't be able to find him here. Or so he thought.

"Sherlock?" came his voice, an apprehensive, shaky, soft sound that Sherlock had never heard come from John before. He turned and saw him looking the same as the state of his voice, only more nervous.

"John," he said, hoping that he would take a seat because he looked like he was going to pass out. "Sit." He tried to make himself sound as comforting as he could, but he was not good at comforting. He had no experience with it, and when he tried it, he thought he still sounded a bit too sharp, like he was giving an order.

John obliged, taking a seat far away from Sherlock, who sighed and moved closed to him. "What's wrong?" Sherlock asked.

"Yesterday. I guess I was worried that you were mad."

"Mad? Why would I be mad? It's amazing that you spent the amount of time you did with me, rather than leave earlier than you did in the first place."

John seemed to relax, but not completely. There was still something, and it couldn't be fixed with a few words of comfort in a school building. "Did you think I didn't want to be with you?"

"Not many people do. I didn't see why you would be any exception. Especially not you. You're too . . . good."

"I'm not too good for you, Sherlock."

Sherlock wasn't sure what they were talking about now, so he awkwardly coughed and changed the subject. "Where did you afterwards?"

"Oh. Came back here, actually. Stupid move, really. It was a spur-of-the-moment decision. Why, where did you go?"

"Stayed where we were and then saw Greg after school."

He had stayed for a while. All John could imagine was him sitting there asking himself what he'd done wrong, when he had been the wrong one, not Sherlock. If anything, Sherlock had diffused the tension, and there had been a lot of it. There was tension now, the same amount.

"I wanted to contact you after—after realizing I might have given you the wrong idea," John said, and then quickly added, "Fuck, I did it again. I don't mean the wrong idea by doing . . . you know, but the wrong idea by leaving. Basically, what I'm asking for is your phone number."

Sherlock blinked a few times before shifting his body a bit so he could turn slightly towards John. It was hard to believe he had been in his arms yesterday. He would never have imagined that he would find himself with one arm around John Watson and the other holding his hand, his chin resting on top of his head, his blonde hair against his skin. He almost couldn't believe it.

"Right. Give me your phone." John surprisingly didn't hesitate to hand it to him and let him add the number.

"Thanks. Wait, are you supposed to say thanks when someone gives you their number, or is that weird?"

Sherlock smiled. "You'll have to contact me first because I don't have your number."

"You bastard, you did that on purpose so I would have to text first," John said with a smile, now relaxed.

"I might have done something of the sort."

John slapped his arm so lightly that it may as well have been a tap, and he let it linger for a while before he turned and looked around him. Sherlock raised his eyebrows and was about to ask what he was doing until he felt something warm on his hand and something between his fingers, and when he looked down, he saw John's fingers intertwined with his. John smiled at Sherlock's wide-eyed expression and held it there until more kids began to file in and the bell rang.

No one took notice when they walked into class together apart from Greg, who had a grin on his face, and Sherlock shot him a warning glance before John saw.

"What are you doing with the freak again, John? We talked about this."

John looked apologetically at Sherlock, almost like that first day, but now with some anger behind it. "I'm sorry," he said quietly.

"It's fine, John, Tristan here is just upset because the girl he attempted to have sex with last night left before he could please himself, most likely because he lies about the size of his—"

"Shut the fuck up, faggot," Tristan interrupted.

The room fell silent and soon every pair of eyes were focused on them.

"What the hell is your problem?" John hissed at him, wishing everyone else would stop staring.

"What's yours? Is he your new boyfriend or something?"

"John, just sit down," Sherlock whispered to the back of his neck. To prove his point, he sat down first and stared at John until he did the same, and then he turned around, and they didn't see each other for the rest of class. John didn't speak for the rest of class, and Sherlock may have said something, but all John heard from over there was Greg say, "What the fuck" as he drew out each word.

John's other friends tried talking to him throughout the day, but he wasn't in the mood. Instead he went through his day without even talking to Sherlock and left wordlessly, which was becoming a habit.

As soon as he got home he held his phone in his hand and debated whether he should wait to text or not. He wasn't going to mention the little row in the classroom because he planned to just ignore it and get on with whatever he and Sherlock had going on.

 _Hey_ , John reluctantly typed and pressed send, holding his thumb nail between his teeth as he waited for a reply.

Not even a full minute passed before he got a Hello.

What now? John hated this part. It always led to unbelievably boring conversations that went no where, and that was probably why John also hated texting. But before he could type anything else, he got another text, which read: Is this John?

_Yeah, it's me. I usually put a signature, but I forgot. This is Sherlock, right?_

I certainly hope so, seeing as I'm a number you've never texted before who knows your name, he sent. And then a few seconds later: Also, you don't need to put a signature. I know who you are.

_You know, you're not helping with the whole stranger who knows my name thing._

No, I guess not. It really is Sherlock, though. I can send a picture and everything.

_Oh, can you?_

Oh, God, no. That's not what I meant. It was a joke.

_No, I was joking, too! Unless you want to send one. (Also a joke. Texts should be able to let you know someone's tone of voice.)_

That's called a phone call. And here's one. _File attached._

John stared at the picture in a bit of a shock that he'd actually sent one, and yep. It was definitely Sherlock. And instead of saying something dumb, he sent: _Did you just now take that?_

Yeah, it was the first one I took because I didn't want you to think I was ignoring you.

_FIRST ONE YOU TOOK. SHERLOCK._

What?

_MOST PEOPLE TAKE TWENTY BEFORE GETTING ONE THAT LOOKS THAT GOOD._

Oh.

_This is the most Sherlock thing you have ever done._

Is it?

_Yes._

Well, you've only really known me for a few days.

 _Fine. The most Sherlock thing you've done in the time that I've known you_ , he sent, and then a few seconds later: _So I really know you, then?_

There was a few minutes pause before Sherlock texted back: I believe so, to a certain extent. However, as mentioned before, we haven't known each other for very long, and you don't really know that much about me.

_I know how to fix that._

How so?

_21 Questions._

Oh, God.

_Come on, it'll be fun._

The first mention of any experiences I've had that end with the word 'job', this game is over.

_But what if I want to know your dream job?_

Detective. There goes one of your questions.

_Wait, no, I was just being a smart-ass._

And look where it got you. My turn. Have you ever had a boyfriend?

_Jumped right in there, didn't you?_

Sorry. I didn't mean it in that way.

_No, it's fine. Joking. And no, I haven't if it wasn't obvious from yesterday, which I'm still sorry for leaving the way I did._

It's fine.

_Have you ever had a boyfriend?_

Yes, once. Although it wasn't very stimulating for either of us. My brother had all these ways for me to end it with him, but he ended it first. Wasn't very devastating.

_Your brother wanted you to break up with him?_

He didn't know, actually. But he would have. He's rather dramatic when it comes to these things. When he was our age, he was dating this guy who was cheating on him, and he found out, told the other guy about it, they both broke up with him, and my brother dated the other guy.

_Your brother is my hero, omg._

Don't tell him that, or I'll never hear the end of it.

They dated for a few years, actually, but then they went to different universities and it fell apart.

_Nooo. This had all the makings to be the greatest love story of our generation._

Perhaps. He hasn't had another partner in a while, though. He intimidates them all, I believe.

_Oh, and you don't?_

It's not like I try.

_Yes, you do._

...The slightest bit, maybe. It's interesting to see if they'll be afraid of confidence or not. It tells you a lot about them.

_You don't intimidate me, for what it's worth._

Oh.

_Your turn._

Okay. Have you ever run away from home?

_No. Have you?_

Four times.

_Fuck._

Yes. My parents only got the cops involved the first two times, and the third time, they came and got me. The fourth time, which was a few months ago, they didn't notice, so I don't know if it counts.

_What do you mean they didn't notice?_

I mean that I literally came home after a few days and no one said anything, and it wasn't any kind of silent treatment, either. They genuinely didn't know.

_That's so sad._

Not so much sad as it is horrible.

_That too._

_Why did you do it?_

Complicated. Well, not exactly, but it's difficult to explain. I could, but I'm not sure if I want to.

_Sorry. Forget I asked. I should have known you wouldn't want to talk about it. I'm stupid. Ignore me._

No, you're not stupid, and I'm not going to ignore you. It would be easier to explain if I called.

_Do you want to call?_

"So you do."

"It's easier to say than type," Sherlock said, his voice still managing to sound so irresistible even on a phone.

John leaned back and was happy that he got to just sit and listen to him talk. He could listen to him for hours, and it wouldn't even matter what he was talking about. "All right. So. Running away. Why?"

"The first time, I was thirteen. The second and third time, fifteen," he explained beforehand. "Do you feel trapped, John?"

"Trapped? I don't know what you mean." He knew what he meant. Confined to the fact that he has no control over his life until he leaves and gains the tiniest bit of control. But until then, he doesn't get a say in who his parents are or where they live or how they live. They barely let him pick out his own clothes, let alone how their house should look.

"And I hope you never do. I mean that. But if you ever do, know that's how I feel," he said. Feel, John noted, not felt. "I'm sure you suspect there's more, and there is. Things I'll never tell anyone, and I'm truly sorry for that. But even so, that's what it comes back to. Being trapped. Having the weight of the world on your shoulders but nothing anchoring to where you are at the same time. You want to go so badly, but there's too much to do."

John didn't want to know what he meant by "wanting to go", if it meant what he thought it did.

"I understand, Sherlock. Call me next time, will you? Or text. Just let me know." He didn't specify what he meant either, but Sherlock seemed to get it, which was also concerning.

"I will."

Then, John heard the slamming of a car door. He didn't want to end the conversation, especially not here, but he also didn't want to have to explain anything.

"Parents are home. Or one of them, at least. I have to go. I'll save those other nineteen or so questions for later."

"You only have eleven," Sherlock corrected.

"Well, shit."

"Goodnight, John."

"Goodnight, Sherlock."


	9. Moments Like This Never Last

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title comes from "Hybrid Moments" by Misfits.

John wasn't sure how texting Sherlock had led to meeting him and Greg that same day at five in the afternoon. He'd told his parents he was going to see Mike at his home and would eat dinner there, and he had actually texted Mike to cover for him if either of them called without any further details.

Honestly, he was genuinely interested in meeting Sherlock's friends (friend) and seeing what he did when he wasn't in school, when he wasn't dancing with rugby players in abandoned buildings, that is.

John's mother had been more than happy to send him on his way to be with his friends. He'd barely spoken to them in months, according to her, which was only partially true. They would talk to him during school, but he was never invited to anything after school. Although he couldn't say that he'd go if he was invited.

He changed into a jumper and some jeans before leaving, after making his hair wasn't the usual mess it was. Even it reverted back to what it usually was in an hour or so, at least Sherlock would see it flat on his head for once. It was strange, trying to impress Sherlock. Mostly because John had no idea what he liked, and he didn't know how to ask without it coming off as strange.

But then on the other hand, he had held his hand, for God's sake. In public. The lines were unclear at this point when it came to what they were to each other. It was too early to say boyfriend, but they were definitely more than friends. Weren't they? It was frustrating.

After a quiet walk into the city, he caught sight of two familiar faces. Sherlock was leaned over and talking in a secretive manner to Greg, who was listening intently. Once Greg saw John, he nudged Sherlock in the arm, and he looked up, those beautiful blue eyes focusing on him, and he curled his lips into a soft smile.

John waved awkwardly, and Sherlock swept across the pavement swiftly to meet him. He stopped in front of him as if he was stopping himself from doing something. John looked at him curiously, waiting to see what he was going to do next. Before he could realize what was happening, he felt something press against his forehead and was gone as quickly as it had gotten there.

When John tried to come up with a way to respond, Sherlock had already started walking back to where he was with his fingers pressed to his lips, apparently embarrassed. To let him know that he'd done nothing wrong, John ran up next to him and took his hand and squeezed it, smiling up at him.

Sherlock seemed to relax after that and held his hand, running his thumb over it as if he were trying to make himself believe it was real. Greg seemed to be taking it all in, looking at Sherlock and then at John.

"All right, then," he said through a laugh, which seemed to be because he was happy for Sherlock. That came as a relief to John. He was sure that Sherlock didn't care if John's friends liked him (neither did John, really), but John wanted Greg to like him. He was nice enough and a good friend, so there would have to be a good reason for him to dislike him, and Sherlock would listen to what he had to say. "Well, we better get going."

Sherlock nodded in agreement, and John looked at the two of them. "Wait, going where?"

"Did Sherlock not tell you? We're going to a party."

Greg took off walking walking while John and Sherlock trailed close behind.

"You didn't tell me we were going to a party," John said, giving Sherlock's hand another squeeze.

"You won't know anyone, so you might not have wanted to come. Also, I hate parties. I was hoping we could leave early."

"I would have come anyway, just so you know. I've been to some pretty awful parties in my life, so it's hard to disappoint me at this point."

John could see Sherlock smile at him from the corner of his eye. He wondered if he knew that he could see him, because when he did, it was like every wall he'd put up around himself came down in that moment just so he could deliver that one look. John could see through him for once, and he saw that he liked him. Truly liked him. It was becoming less and less terrifying to think about now. Because John had recognized that he liked Sherlock back.

"Do you like holding my hand?" Sherlock asked abruptly.

"Yeah, of course. Why?"

He shrugged. "I didn't understand why you did it, so I assumed that it was just because you wanted to make me happy."

"No. Well, I mean, I want to make you happy, but I also like holding your hand."

Sherlock held it a bit tighter and kept walking.

The party was apparently taking place in some uni student's flat, which was located in a tall building amongst several businesses that John really hoped wouldn't call the police. From what he could tell, the flat was a pretty good size, but not necessarily accommodated for fifty people to be cramped into it, but they all seemed to be having a good time, regardless.

As soon as Greg opened the door, John was met with the smell of alcohol and beer, and it wasn't too long after when he saw several people drinking. He had gotten drunk before, but he wasn't going to on his first night out (definitely not a date) with Sherlock, and judging by the look on his face, Sherlock had the same idea.

"The host of the party is currently having problems with their parents, the girl with the purple hair is pregnant but doesn't know it yet, and the boy with the vapor cigarette and neck tattoo spent the majority of his childhood in an orphanage," Sherlock was saying into John's ear suddenly.

John smiled. "Is this how you normally make conversation?"

"Yes, but also I'm letting you know in case you want to go converse with anyone," Sherlock nearly had to yell over the music and other occupants of the flat.

"I will if you do. I was planning to just follow you around the whole time so I don't have to meet new people alone."

"Well, that's not a very good plan because my plan was to follow you around the whole time."

"Not good, that," John said with a laugh.

"I was going to sneak away to the roof because I don't want to leave completely and have Greg be angry with me. He can't get mad if I'm still in the vicinity of the party."

"Five minutes in, and I'm already leaving. That's a new record."

But he still followed Sherlock up the stairs and onto the roof, ignoring the idea of going somewhere else alone located within the flat because of the sex that would have been happening right next door to them. So the roof seemed like a better option. It was quiet and didn't make John feel claustrophobic, although now he just had to not look down.

Sherlock appeared behind him, and John could feel his warmth radiating off of him and could smell that now familiar smell that was so utterly Sherlock and so enticing.

John didn't know if he should turn around or stay the way he was and just let Sherlock stay where he was, because he quite liked this setup. All he needed to make it perfect was to have Sherlock's arms wrapped around him from behind, but he didn't think Sherlock would be the type to make a move like that. The kiss you the forehead earlier seemed to be very new to him, and even then he'd second-guessed himself.

"It's nice out tonight," John remarked. Sherlock hummed in agreement. "And you can see the stars from up here. Constellations, you know. Like, there's Ara, the altar." John pointed, and Sherlock studied it for a few seconds.

"That looks absolutely nothing like an altar."

"No, but that's what it is, apparently." John turned and faced Sherlock, slightly overwhelmed by how ridiculously beautiful he looked outside at night with moonlight creeping behind his dark hair and illuminating his skin. He'd had plenty of witty conversation starters before he turned around, but as soon as he looked at him, he didn't know what to say.

"Space was always my least favorite to study in science," Sherlock said lowly.

"I didn't think you had a least favorite."

"It never interested me."

"What does interest you?"

Oh, what a stupid thing to say. Now he was going to think he was coming on too quickly and get freaked out. John bit his lip and waited for Sherlock to look confused, but he was instead met with a half-smirk, and John felt as though he was in asystole for the seconds after he did it.

"In what way?"

"I wasn't being completely serious. It came out wrong."

Sherlock obviously wasn't convinced, but he didn't press on it and sat down, leaning against the brick wall in which the stair case leading back down was encased in. He stared up at John in silence until he took the hint that he should probably sit down, too, or things would get awkward fast.

Despite his initial shyness that only ever surfaced for Sherlock, it seemed, John sat close to him, his shoulder just barely brushing against the other boy's, and he was almost tempted to get even closer and close the gap completely. Almost.

"This isn't what you're used to, is it?"

John didn't know what he was referring to, but whispered "No" anyway because it could be applied to everything at the moment. But he liked it.

"Do you like it?"

"I do."

"I can't imagine why."

"Sorry, what are we talking about right now?"

He gestured around him. "All of it. Most people wouldn't take you as one to be this kind of person." Most people. Which implies that he is not one of them. Because he could see right through him. Everything he'd hidden away and kept secret from even himself, and he'd not only recognized it, but he'd also brought it into the light in a short amount of time, and for the first time, John didn't feel at war with himself.

Taking another chance, John dropped his head onto Sherlock's arm, and he felt it tense up underneath him, but once he realized that it was just John, he relaxed, although he was stiff from trying not to move.

"It's getting late," John stated. "Should I call home and say I'm staying at Mike's for the night?"

Sherlock seemed surprised at the question. "If you're planning on staying out all night, then yes."

"Are you?"

"I'm not sure yet." Then, Sherlock was laying down and placing one arm behind his head and the other around John, whose head was now on Sherlock's chest. "I'm never this outgoing, by the way. How am I doing for my first time?"

John had to snap out of his haze created by the sound of Sherlock's heartbeat and the fact that he'd never been this close to him for so long before. "Pretty good, I'd say."

Sherlock was quiet for a while, silently stroking John's back with the tips of his fingers. "Are you cold?"

How could he be when Sherlock was so warm? "No," he said. Sherlock was eyeing his own jacket and then back at John who didn't have one, even though the night had gotten progressively cooler the later it got, so John added, "You're wearing a tank-top under there, and I have a jumper. I'm not taking your jacket."

Sherlock appeared to be thinking of a reason why John's comfort level was more important than his own health, but all he could come up with was, "Are you certain? Because I'll be fine without one."

"I'm sure," John murmured against Sherlock's collarbone.

xxx

Sherlock woke up with a pain in his neck and blonde hair tickling his jaw. He smiled and gently shook John.

"John?"

John shifted and lifted his head, blinking and squinting against the sunlight that was now present. "What? Oh," he said groggily before he settled on Sherlock's chest again.

"Will your parents be angry?"

"I'll probably just get yelled at for a few minutes and given a speech on what they thought had happened to me. Nothing too bad."

"Unless you tell them about me."

"Meet them, then."

"You make it sound simple."

"It is. 'Hello, Mr. and Mrs. Watson, my name is Sherlock Holmes, nice to meet you.'"

Sherlock sighed. "No, I'm not good at that sort of thing. I'll say something wrong."

Which was probably true, although John wouldn't agree with him out loud. He would introduce him as a friend, partially because he didn't know what else to call him. Friends don't necessarily fall asleep while cuddling simultaneously, though, do they? Pushing those thoughts back, John replied, "I usually do, so they won't be so shocked by it."

"Do you have friends over often, then?"

Friends. So that was settled. Kind of.

"No, not really. They're not very welcoming people, so."

"Neither am I."

John laughed quietly. "You'll have to come over one day, I guess."

Sherlock sat up slowly, still holding onto John as he did so. And then they were sitting there with Sherlock's arm around John's waist, inches away from each other, and the tiniest gap between their lips. John could do it. He was already staring at his lips, and Sherlock must be noticing. All it would take is a little tilt of the head.

But he didn't do it. Instead he tore his eyes away and told Sherlock that he had to go home. Sherlock let him go, his face expressionless. It had been a good night, but John felt as though he'd ruined how it should have ended.

xxx

When Sherlock got home, he was instantly met with the sounds of friendly-sounding chatter coming from the sitting room where he glanced around the corner of, though not making himself known. It wasn't like his parents would care if he avoided talking to their coworkers. In fact, they'd prefer it. He'd met some of them, and it never went well. Except it wasn't a coworker. Sherlock audibly groaned when he saw the figure across from his parents on the couch with his back straight and the umbrella leaning against one of his long legs.

"Oh, Sherlock, there you are. Come in," his mother said excitedly, as if she was proud at the fact that at least one of her children weren't ruined for reasons she couldn't understand.

"It's not raining, Mycroft, you don't need an umbrella," Sherlock whispered to him when he sat down beside him, not loud enough for his parents to hear.

"Good to see you, as well, Sherlock. Always a pleasure," he replied without trying to hide the sarcasm. Now he was studying Sherlock, and Sherlock couldn't do anything to avoid it. He would know everything, but he wouldn't say anything until they were alone. He raised his eyebrows when he was done and smirked, to which Sherlock rolled his eyes at.

"Mummy," Mycroft said, placing an empty cup of tea on the small table in front of him, "do you think you could get Sherlock some tea?"

She knew that to be Mycroft asking them to leave because she knew that Sherlock was comfortable talking to Mycroft, but no matter how much she asked, he wouldn't tell her what he said. Still, at least he was talking to someone, and she came up with an excuse to get their father out, too, which didn't take much because he was in on it.

Once they were gone, Mycroft turned to Sherlock. He had graduated university about a year ago and had already found a quite good job, one which he was not allowed to disperse any details about, so Sherlock assumed he was working with MI6 or something and was risking his life constantly. Sherlock wasn't sure how he felt about it.

"How are you, Sherlock?" When it came from him and was directed to Sherlock, it wasn't a conversation filler or starter; he meant it and expected an honest answer.

"I'm fine," Sherlock said quietly, and Mycroft didn't seem to be convinced.

"Are the nightmares back? Or did they ever leave?"

"We aren't talking about this."

"You need to. If not with me, then someone. I have told you so many times before: when I tried to get you to talk to someone when it happened, I was trying to help you, and I stand by that."

Sherlock frowned at him. "You had no right finding out in the first place."

"You made no attempt to hide it, and what was I supposed to do? Ignore it like everyone else? You're my brother, and while I realize we may not have always been affectionate or brotherly in the aspects most siblings are, we're closer than either of us are to our parents. So I apologize if I was angry, or if I was worried about you."

Sherlock went quiet. It was true. Mycroft had been trying to help him, and part of him knew that, but the other part of him struggled to see that.

When he noticed Sherlock had nothing to say, he changed the subject. "Where have you been all night? Obviously a party, but you don't smell like alcohol. Or cigarettes, surprisingly. Something must have had your attention. Or shall I say someone?"

He rolled his eyes again, but he could do nothing to stop the small smile that found its way to his lips as he relived yesterday. "I was with a friend."

"Really? That's not how I smile when I spend the night with a 'friend'."

"That's because you have no friends."

"Fair enough. But hypothetically speaking," Mycroft said, unfazed by the insult. "Who is he? I'm going to guess he's blonde?" He plucked a short hair off of his jacket and waved it in Sherlock's face before flicking it off his fingers.

"His name is John, and he's none of your business. If I hear you've gone and interrogated him, it won't be pleasant for you."

"Oh, Sherlock, believe me when I say that there's little you can get away with when it comes to harming me," he warned with a glare. "And I'm not going to interrogate him. When have I ever done that?"

Sherlock lowered his gaze and tilted his head to the side. "Victor."

"You have no proof."

"He said a man in a suit with auburn hair all but kidnapped him and gave him the 'hurt him and I'll hurt you' speech."

"Well, he was the first boyfriend you'd had since it happened."

"John's not my boyfriend," Sherlock said immediately, raising his voice only slightly.

This time, it was Mycroft who rolled his eyes. "Not yet. But if you trust him—"

"I do."

"Then go ahead, I suppose."

"I don't need your blessing."

"No, but I'm merely insinuating that your judgement is the best you have."

"I know. I won't get hurt. I'm not a child anymore, Mycroft."

"Yes, you are. But if you're this defensive over him, I guess I have to trust him."

"Good."


	10. Calling Out Your Name While The Chance Remains

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title comes from "Want" by Jawbreaker.

The next day, a Monday, after John spent Sunday grounded after a lecture (but his parents did buy his story), John actually felt glad to go to school, even considering what day of the week it was. He was being driven to school today also, in case he decided to "get the idea to stay out again." They still didn't know that he skipped that one day, and he had no plans to tell, but he managed to keep a straight face when they mentioned it.

Of course, the only downside to not walking was that he had zero chances of getting there early, therefore barely any time to talk to Sherlock, when the last time they'd spoken to each other had been their face-to-face encounter at the party, and they couldn't have texted anymore because his phone had been taken from him all day yesterday. Which seemed like a stupid punishment because the reason he was being grounded in the first place was because he hadn't used his phone, and they must have realized this because they gave it back this morning, instructing him to use it correctly.

John sat in the passenger side and glanced out the window as his father silently drove, looking at him every so often. At least when his mother drove him she talked the whole time and didn't even care or notice if John said nothing in response. When it was only his dad, things were silent, and not the good kind. He looked like he wanted to say something to John, but he never did and instead looked at him like he was some random kid who came in and replaced his son one day.

He was thankful when the car came to a stop in front of his school, and John shared a painfully awkward look with his father as if they were both trying to decide if they should say goodbye. They didn't. They never did. John would definitely walk the next time he was allowed to, which would be soon, most likely.

Even though there was barely any time before he had to go to class, John still searched for Sherlock, if only to see that face and hear that voice at least once today. That was when he knew he was in too deep, when yesterday he spent the entire day missing him, even when he'd seen him that same morning. He didn't know what it was about him. Or at least, there was nothing he could pick out of all the other reasons. It was just because he was him.

John only enough to say a rushed hello after seeing him, which wasn't hard to do in any crowd, really, but maybe that was just because he was all John wanted to see in this particular place.

"How did your parents react?" It seemed like he was asking another question and was disguising it as another, one that was very similar to Did you tell them about me? John knew how to answer the question he asked, but as for the insinuated one, he wasn't sure if Sherlock wanted him to.

"What I predicted, basically. Got a lecture, got my phone taken away. The usual."

"Oh, is that why you didn't answer my texts?" Sherlock was smiling as he said it, but John still took out his phone and checked his messages, and the only one there was one from Sherlock that simply read: John? Just as he was about to ask what he'd been going to say, Sherlock cut in. "What's that on your lock screen?"

John blushed and put the phone back in his pocket. "What do you mean?"

Sherlock's smile became a grin in 0.5 seconds. "That was the picture I sent you that one day," he said, sure of himself.

"Could have been anything," John mumbled.

"John. Look at me for a second." and before he even knew what was happening, Sherlock had his own phone out, pointed it at John, and then held it down.

John blinked at the green spot that had now appeared as a result of the flash of the camera. "Well, don't use that one, I wasn't ready!"

Sherlock turned the phone around and presented his own lock screen, now with the picture of John. "I like this one. It looks like you."

"You could have at least told me to smile first."

"Fine. Smile."

John quickly flashed a small smile, causing Sherlock to smile softly in response, and John really hoped he took the picture before the blush found its way to his cheeks again.

"There. I like this one more. With the smile, it looks even more like you."

"Good. We're even, then. Now, the reason I came over here in the first place was to ask you if you want to come over this afternoon."

Sherlock froze and looked genuinely confuse for once. "To your house?"

John laughed. "Of course. I can't have Mike cover for me forever, and why not?"

"But you were just grounded after an unexplained night out, and then suddenly you're bringing home someone they've never met before. It shouldn't be too hard to draw a conclusion there." If only John knew what that conclusion was.

"I think you're forgetting that not everyone has superhuman observation skills like you," John said. "So will you do it?"

He paused with his arms crossed, swaying a bit as he considered the request. John nearly rolled his eyes because it was clear he was going to say yes.

"I'll do it."

And the school day couldn't have gone any slower.

xxx

Sherlock was more nervous than he let on, and it showed more and more the closer they got to John's house. Not that John blamed him. If he were him, he wouldn't want to meet them, either. The whole way, he kept asking questions about them and probably trying to decide if they would like him or not. It was like John with Greg; he just wanted them to like him and approve of him. Except a little voice in the back of John's head kept telling him that they wouldn't.

Once they were in front of John's house, he had to turn to Sherlock, who was all but bouncing on his heels with nerves, and asked, "Are you all right?"

"Yes, John, I'm fine. Let's just get this out of the way. And if we find ourselves in a situation where we need to lie, let me do it because you're a terrible liar."

What would fall under Situations To Lie, anyway? And John had never lied to Sherlock (had he?), so he had no idea how he knew he'd be bad at it, although he wasn't wrong. He was lucky his parents didn't care enough to catch him in a lie. Or maybe not so lucky. He wasn't sure.

When they entered the house, his parents looked up, expecting to briefly see John for a few seconds before he ran off to his room or wherever they weren't, and they didn't try to hide their surprise when John walked into where they were, followed by another boy.

"Uh, Mum, Dad, this is Sherlock. Studying. We have a test. It's big."

"Uh-huh," his mother said slowly, looking around John to get a better look at Sherlock, who was standing stiffly with his hands clasped in front of him. She pulled in her eyebrows and looked to have thousands of comments at the tip of her tongue, but she held them all back. His father, on the other hand, wasn't even looking at them any more and looked elsewhere, and John had no idea what that meant.

John wished he could reach over and give Sherlock's hand a squeeze, since he dealt with people like this all the time, but it hurt more with them because they were so closely related to John, and their opinions held weight. Or Sherlock must have thought they did. John didn't care what they thought, but he couldn't seem to convince Sherlock figured that.

"Right, okay, we'll be upstairs," John said, and Sherlock left the room first, forgetting that he didn't know where 'upstairs' was.

John ran up the stairs with Sherlock at his heels and closed the door behind them.

"That could have gone better," he said.

"They hated me," Sherlock inputted.

"Well, it's not like we said much. They didn't get to have a real conversation with you. All they saw was a boy with metal in his face with their son. They're judgmental, I know."

Sherlock went and sat on the edge of John's bed, with that usual expressionless look. "What's done is done. I think a change in subject is called for."

John smiled and sat beside him, surprisingly very comfortable because he'd decided long ago that he trusted Sherlock. "I want to hear about your ex-boyfriend."

"I hoped you wouldn't have changed the subject to me." John started to change it again, but Sherlock continued. "His name was Victor. He had brown hair and hazel eyes and was very thin and even taller than me."

"Opposite of me, then?"

"In all the best ways, too," Sherlock agreed. "We dated for three months until he broke up with me after a miscommunication we had. There you have it. Nothing interesting about it."

"What made you attracted to him?"

"Well, he was clever and funny and handsome, and most of all, he didn't treat me like I was different from everyone he'd ever met. We were a very ordinary couple, I assure you. Apart from my brother threatening him once or twice."

"Your brother the legend?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but he smiled faintly. "If that's what you want to think of him as, although you'd have a different opinion if you had to live with him for eleven years."

"I think it sounded nice, you and Victor. Even if it ended."

"Why do you always end things with your girlfriends?"

"It never works with anyone because I always feel like I'm trying to be someone else, and after a while, I just can't do it anymore."

"You don't do anything like that for me, do you?"

"I've thought about it before, I'll admit, but then I realized that I don't know what you like."

And then Sherlock was closer, looking into his eyes, and it felt like staring into the sun, but John couldn't bring himself to look away. His gaze and entire attention span was locked on one thing, and it was the boy in front of him, the boy he hadn't been able to get out of his head since he first entered it, and now he was here, in front of him, just a lean of the head away. He'd already made the mistake once.

His heart had sped up, and he wondered if Sherlock's had, too. He didn't look it; he looked collected, like he wasn't afraid at all. And maybe John shouldn't be afraid because this was Sherlock who he could never seem to get close enough to, and this could fix that desire that had been burning John alive.

John soon realized that Sherlock's calm face had been yet another wall he so desperately wanted to bring down. He must have been hoping that his face would make John believe he was fine, but when he went to cup John's cheek, John noticed that his hands were shaking violently and his breathing was in shorter, heavier cycles, as if he couldn't breathe. And John could finally see him for him.

Sherlock was scared. Scared that he would be hurt, scared of rejection, scared of love in general. He wasn't always this serious, overly practical person who always knew what he was doing and only did what he wanted to do. He was young and had been broken and badly mended. And he really didn't realize how beautiful and amazing he was, only pretended to because he wanted to ward people away from him. But not John. John understood him. John knew him. John kissed him.

Both of them had seen it coming, so they fell into it quickly. Sherlock kept one hand poised on his waist while the other remained holding his cheek, his fingers curling when their lips made contact. John threw his hands around his neck and ran a hand through his hair, the dark curls flooding over onto his fingers in a soft caress against his skin while his lips worked against his.

Sherlock took his hand off his waist and put it on the other side of his face, holding both cheeks and deepening the kiss even further before pulling apart with just enough room to say as his lips still brushing against John's, "You. I like you. You're what I like." And they resumed the kissing.

John had kissed plenty of girls before, and he'd never felt anything. For a while he'd told himself it was because he was just a bad kisser, but no. He felt something with this, and suddenly, he got what the big deal was with kissing. John sat up straight on his knees with Sherlock's hands now linked around his waist again, as Sherlock leaned back, and then they fell back on the bed, a tangle of limbs and lips as John got used to being on top of another boy.

He wasn't sure what was going to happen, but whatever it was came to an end when Sherlock opened his eyes and pulled apart to whisper "Stop," and he did. He moved off of him immediately and mentally bullied himself for doing it in the first place. Sherlock didn't want this, obviously, and John couldn't make him be attracted to him.

"What's wrong? Did I do something?" John asked, although he dreaded the reply.

Sherlock sat up, now shaking again. "No. You didn't."

"You can tell me if I did, because I—"

"John, really, it's fine. It's more my fault than anything. You did nothing wrong."

John fumbled with his hands and nervously glanced around the room, feeling Sherlock's intense stare on him. "You're sure?"

"Yes. I'm not ready, I guess, for something of that . . . nature."

Of course he wasn't. Why would he be? He'd probably only ever been kissed one time before that, for God's sake. This must have been the miscommunication he'd been talking about, and now he was waiting for John to make him leave or something equally as unlikely.

"Right. Neither am I, I don't think." At least not with Sherlock. John lost his virginity at fifteen, the first real party he'd ever attended. But it wasn't anything spectacular or emotional or romantic because he hadn't cared about the person and she hadn't cared about him. He would be slower with Sherlock, to take time to learn every part of him and make sure he was okay throughout it.

Sherlock nodded. "Fantastic. So, you mentioned studying, and you won't have to lie if we actually do that, so I'm going to teach you."

John laughed and moved beside him. "Sure. I know I'll do well if you're the one doing all the talking."


	11. I Wanna Be Your Boyfriend

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took much too long, especially with how short it is, and I'm sorry. It just wouldn't come to me, and I had to make a few decisions about where it's going to go. This chapter still isn't what I want it to be, but what can you do? (Lots of things, I'm sure.)
> 
> Chapter title comes from "I Wanna Be Your Boyfriend" by The Ramones. You know you saw that one coming.

The test Sherlock helped John study for turned out to be his best grade in that class yet. He'd liked being taught by Sherlock rather than another tutor. Sherlock spoke fast and didn't like to repeat himself, but it gave John all the more reason to pay close attention, and that wasn't hard to do no matter what Sherlock was talking about.

Sherlock had left before dinner purposely, which John's parents were just as relieved about. John was annoyed with all three of them at this point, because if they would just speak to each other, it would be fine, and Sherlock wouldn't have to deal with the awkwardness every time he came over.

Every time. Implying there would be a next time and times after that. John liked the idea, but he was now even more confused about where they stood. The kiss had been fine until it got too heated, and it was too early for that, anyway. But neither of them had disliked it, and there was no reason why they shouldn't. Kind of. There were reasons, but none directly because of them.

But even with all this, he felt like Sherlock was avoiding him. He would answer John when he texted, but John had stopped after a while because he felt like he was bothering him. So he spent the afternoon with the rugby team.

After spending so much time with Sherlock, it was hard to consider them friends when he'd realized that he'd only hung around them in the first place so he wouldn't be alone. And now he might be right back to that with no Sherlock at all. He wouldn't kiss him again if he ever did talk to him again, that was for sure.

Right now he was sitting in the middle of a story being told about sex, and John was the only one without any kind of input on it.

"What's wrong with you, mate? You've been acting weird for weeks now."

It took John a few seconds to realize that the question was directed towards him, and when he snapped out of his thoughts and looked up, he saw them all looking at him. "What? Nothing. Nothing's wrong with me."

"Where have you been, then?"

He should. "Nowhere."

"He's been with Sherlock Holmes. I think they're dating," came Tristan's voice.

John bristled and almost dropped the book he'd been pressing against to do his homework on. "What the hell would give you that impression?" A lot of things, but that wasn't relevant right now.

"I was joking, calm down," he said, throwing up his hands in mock-defeat.

But it wasn't like they were dating in the first place, and they never would. They couldn't. And this was why. They could hurt Sherlock, if John didn't do it first without intending to.

He had nothing else to say. He just wanted to leave, and he found himself trying to come up with an excuse and not look like he was only leaving because they were talking about this. Even if it was what he was leaving for.

"Whatever. I have to go."

They stayed silent as he left, although he had no doubt that they were talking about him now that he was gone.

xxx

He came home and tried not to slam the door because his parents were home, and he didn't feel like having them ask repeatedly what was wrong. He immediately went and sat down, pretending to look at whatever was projected on the television screen.

"Who were you with?" his mother asked, because that was apparently more important than where he was. She hadn't said anything about Sherlock yet, but she'd been waiting for the opportunity, and this was probably it. He braced himself for it.

"Just some friends," he answered.

She raised an eyebrow. "Which friends?"

"Rugby friends."

After this, she settled slightly, not holding herself so stiff and not frowning as deeply. John knew what that meant. Here it comes.

"Good. I was worried it would be that other boy again. What gutter did you find him in, anyway?"

Her words made his skin crawl. He frowned pointedly and crossed his arms as he leaned forward and sat straighter, lifting his chin up higher, physically and mentally. It felt strange to do, either way. Unfamiliar and foreign.

"He's the top of all his classes. He was helping me."

She didn't seem convinced. "He looks like a criminal."

"He's not." He couldn't think of anything else to say. At least, nothing he could tell her. He couldn't tell her about those rare smiles that were burned into his memory and increased his pulse. He couldn't tell her about the warmth of his body, or the warmth of his eyes when they met his. He couldn't tell her about how delicately he holds him, like he's holding the most precious thing in the world.

"He will be, then." Then she tried to soften her voice as if she were giving some advice with wisdom far beyond both of their years. "I know that type, and they never turn out right. I don't want you involved in that."

John didn't reply, but he had a suppressed glare behind his eyes that wouldn't be too hard to find if she wanted to. But she didn't want to, because she patted his knee and went back into the kitchen to help prepare dinner. John pulled out his phone and texted Sherlock.

_Hey._

Hi. What's wrong?

_Why do you assume something's wrong?_

You were in a bad mood today.

John frowned and tried to recollect what he'd said to lead Sherlock to that conclusion. Had he been snappy? Maybe. But it was the afternoon with the rugby team that really set him off, and he hadn't seen Sherlock since then.

_Can't you just do your 'deductions' or whatever and find out?_ That probably sounded snappy. He bit his lip as he awaited the response.

Yes, but I wanted to hear it from you to see if you wanted to talk about it.

_Call me. Or come over. I don't know._

I could be there in ten minutes, at most.

Wait, what? He hadn't expected him to actually come over. He was just insinuating that it was a conversation better had face-to-face.

_You don't have to do that_ , he replied quickly.

Too late. My coat's on, and I've just opened the door, Sherlock sent, and then a few seconds later added: Plus, I want to talk, too.

That couldn't be good. But instead of stopping him, John texted, _But my parents are home._

Then wait in your room.

John rolled his eyes. They were a ridiculous pair, but that's what made it so interesting to him. He went upstairs and made sure to lock the door. It was rare that either of them ever walked in while he was in there, but it would be his luck for it to happen while Sherlock was in there talking about God knows what.

He sat on the edge of the bed and watched the window nervously. Was he really just going to climb up without anyone noticing? He looked out and tried to determine how he would go about that. There was a portico near his window, and he assumed Sherlock would find a way to get on that and climb from there.

Unlocking the window, he looked once more for any sign of Sherlock. He'd said ten minutes, but they were a long set of ten minutes.

Then, finally, he heard a light knock at the window, and he opened it instantly, glancing back at the door numerous times in fear of one of his parents finding out. Sherlock was quiet and light on his feet, but the threat was still there.

"You have to be really quiet, okay? My house isn't that big, and the walls aren't soundproof," he whispered.

"Obviously," he said in a low voice. "Now. Why are you upset?"

He went and sat on the bed. "Well, I thought you were avoiding me, and then I was with the rugby team, and they said some things that I didn't like. It sounds stupid when I saw it out loud, especially since you came all this way."

Sherlock shook his head and paced the room, although John really wished he wouldn't because it made them more susceptible to being caught. He must have understood this, because he went and sat beside John. "I wasn't avoiding you."

"I know. I mean, I didn't. I do now. Before you told me. I just felt like you were."

"Stop being paranoid. What reason would I have to avoid you?"

John almost mentioned the obvious, but Sherlock always already knew the obvious. He saw beyond it. And he saw beyond what he just said. Maybe. He could be oblivious when it came to how other people felt about him, if it was positive. Or he could be seeing if John would say something about it.

"I don't know."

"If anything, you should be avoiding me. Now, what did your friends say?"

"Uh . . . just being arseholes in general, like usual," John said, dazed as he tried to keep up with Sherlock. "And what do you mean I should be avoiding you?" Because if Sherlock could go back and forth between topic like that, then so could John.

He arched an eyebrow, raising his hands for a second with his already crossed arms. "Well, why not? After all you've had to feel from being around me, and it hasn't even been very long, I would think it to be human nature to distance yourself as far as possible from me."

"So what does it mean if I don't want to distance myself from you? Is that not normal human nature?"

Sherlock smiled, and it made John start fidgeting with his hands for some reason. "John, I don't think you're like other humans, so no. It's not normal. But normal for you."

What the hell was he supposed to make of that? Did he say something witty, be insulted, stay silent? Sherlock was sitting a marginally small bit closer, just as he had done yesterday before . . .

"What about you, then? Do you want to distance yourself from me?"

"Oh, on the contrary."

He sounded so fucking calm, like John had asked for the time and Sherlock gave it to him.

John went silent, Sherlock's face as unreadable as ever. "What do you mean?"

"Could there be a second meaning to what I just said?" For Sherlock? Yes. But before John could say anything, Sherlock's fingers were under his chin, lifting up his face enough for him to lean over and press a tender kiss to his lips. It was different when Sherlock was the one who initiated the kiss. It was soft and slow, a kiss from a fairytale.

Kissing back, John kept his hands on his knees with a tight grip. He half-expected his parents to come in right now, even though the door was locked. Sherlock was right: he was paranoid.

Sherlock broke the kiss, but he still stayed close, sitting in front of John with those eyes. "I'm not good at this kind of thing, you have to understand."

Like hell he wasn't, was John's first thought, but then he realized that he wasn't talking about the kissing.

"Just say it," John said, taking Sherlock's hand for more encouragement.

He took a deep breath, but his face remained calm. "I want to be with you."

John felt his heart stop, even though he'd expected it. He smiled and squeezed Sherlock's hand with both of his. "Me too."

Sherlock looked almost surprised, and John had a feeling there was more surprise than he was showing in his face. "Really?"

"Seriously? I don't kiss just anyone."

"Well . . ."

John laughed. "Okay, fine. But you're special. Trust me."

"Okay." He was practically beaming. John didn't think he'd ever seen him look so happy.


	12. Reflect What You Are

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really glad they're a couple now. Now I can be as cheesy as I want. *evil laughter*
> 
> Chapter title comes from "I'll Be Your Mirror" by The Velvet Underground.

The next two months went by rather quickly, but left John feeling more whole than he had in a long time. It started out being either awkward when it came to things like kissing, or it was just the same as it always was. Now it was different. The kisses were a lot of the time unplanned, like John walking behind Sherlock and kissing his cheek in the middle of one of his tirades, or Sherlock pecking his lips confidently when they greeted each other and when they departed.

But no one could know. The only people who did know was Sherlock, John, Greg, and a few random people who saw them holding hands or saw Sherlock spin John around, dip him, and pull him into a kiss while John laughed loudly. But the random people didn't really count because they didn't care about two kids making out against the back wall of some rundown tattoo parlor.

John wished he could tell. He wanted to be able to hold his boyfriend's hand and lean his head on his shoulder in front of everyone, but they both knew it couldn't be like that. He already had to stutter out lies when someone would point out, "Hey, John, is that a hickey?", which would cause the group around the boy who said it to laugh, and John would force himself to smile along and deny it.

Sherlock, on the other hand, did no such thing. He was already openly gay to his parents, and they were fine with it because their other son was also gay, and he was openly gay at school, which was not received as well, but he didn't care what any of them said, and after a while of Sherlock not replying to any taunts, it got boring and they moved on.

But whenever someone would comment on how much time he and John spent together, he wouldn't say anything, not denying anything at all. It was his way of reassuring John that he was not embarrassed to be with him. And neither was John. He'd felt ashamed before Sherlock came along because that was how he'd been raised, but now he realized that there was nothing wrong with who he was.

John was also doing exceedingly well in rugby this season. Sherlock came to every game and hid out during some practices and would surprise John when he was done and walk him home or go somewhere with him.

Sherlock had given him one of his bracelets that he claimed he never wore (John had seen him in it countless times), and John wore it to every game. It was made of thick black leather and had actual spikes around it, and it made some members of the opposing teams not want to get to close in fear of getting slashed by it. John would find Sherlock in the audience before every game and kiss the bracelet, which made Sherlock grin and blush, which he denied, every time.

John found Sherlock one day after practice leaning against the school building's wall, smoking. He'd been trying to quit for John, and he had lessened the amount he smoked, but sometimes he couldn't help himself. He stamped it on the ground when he saw John and smiled at him. A couple of players walking by scoffed at him for him even being there, but he brushed it off and could barely hear them because John was walking over, and he blocked out every jeer.

His normally ash blonde hair was darkened by the dampness of sweat, and he was still in his shorts and t-shirt. But even with how tired he must have been, he still jogged up to Sherlock.

"Hey," John said, slightly out of breath. He looked around him and made sure that there was no one in sight, and when he discovered that all of the other boys had gone into the locker room, he pressed his lips against Sherlock's, who smiled and kissed back. "What are you doing here?"

"I realized something," he said, pausing before continuing. "We have been together for two months officially, and we haven't been on a proper date."

"Define 'proper date'," John said with an amused smile.

"Oh, you know. High-end restaurant, overpriced food you could make yourself for more than half the price, someone playing the piano or the harp behind us."

John laughed and tilted his head up as Sherlock tilted his downwards so they could press their foreheads together while holding hands. He found that he liked the feeling of the metal on Sherlock's eyebrow piercing and the metal he felt from his nose ring when their noses brushed past one another.

"When?"

"Today."

"At least let me take a shower first."

Sherlock smirked. "The reservations are at eight."

"Mm. Good. I can do eight. Are you going to wear a tie?"

He pulled a face, but kept his smile. "No, I hate ties. A purple dress shirt and black dress pants, though."

"That's hot. What about me? Do I have to wear a tie?"

A door shutting on the side of the building could be heard, and Sherlock jerked away from John's forehead and dropped his hands, both of them watching for the person. It was a new rugby player who'd just transferred and barely knew anyone yet, and he jumped nearly out of his skin and stopped dead in his tracks when he saw John and Sherlock staring at him. John tried to smile, but the boy was rushing away from the scene.

"I should walk you home now. The others will be out soon. And no, you don't have to wear a tie, but feel free." Then Sherlock hovered his hand on the small of John's waist and led him away, linking their hands together once they were far enough away.

"God, I hate having to do that," John confessed.

Sherlock kissed his cheek. "It's necessary."

"Why?"

"Because people are stupid, John. Particularly the people you associate with."

"It's not like I try to associate with them, they just talk to me, and I talk back to be polite."

Sherlock snorted. "You're too nice to people. Always trying to see the best in them."

"It's better to see the best in them. Just because there's bad in them doesn't mean the good you're trying to see doesn't exist."

"Yes, but it's hard to see goodness in them if I can't so much as hug you in front of them because they'll punch me, you, or both of us."

John leaned his head against Sherlock's shoulder and kept walking, running his thumb over his hand. He wanted to stay like this with him instead of go home where he was devoid of all comfort and warmth. "Not everyone is like that. You can hold my hand in the hallway, Sherlock, I really wouldn't mind."

Sherlock stopped walking and held John's arm. "I refuse to let you get hurt by someone because of me."

"I can defend myself. I'm not helpless, you know."

"That's not the point, whether you protect yourself or not. You still had to have a reason to defend yourself, and it would be because of me."

John sighed and moved his arm out of Sherlock's grasp. "Don't be so overprotective. I'm going to get hurt sometimes, bad things are going to happen to me from time to time. But you can't go around blaming yourself for them."

"I would for that."

"I can handle a few idiots. You do, don't you?"

"But these people are your friends. Supposedly. You wouldn't have anyone."

John took half a step towards Sherlock, his face straight, if not a bit annoyed. "I would have you. I think that's a hell of a lot better than some people who don't even like me."

"You're irritated," Sherlock stated.

"Bloody good observation," John said, exasperated. "You're making it seem like you think it would have been better if we'd never met."

"Easier."

"What?"

"It would be easier if we'd never met. But not better. At least, not for me."

John eased his shoulders, not even realizing how stiffly he'd been holding himself. Sherlock sounded and looked scared again. It was the same scared tone, but for a different reason. The first time had been because he'd been afraid of getting John, and now he was afraid of losing him.

He threw his arms around his neck and pulled him in quickly in a flying motion. His lips were right at his collar bone, which he placed a kiss to before putting his head on his shoulder and holding it there. "I'm not leaving you, calm down."

Sherlock hugged him back, breathing a little easier, squeezing his eyes shut and breathed John in. He always smelled like soap, laundry detergent, and cheap cologne that he'd bought randomly and managed to smell good on him.

"I'm sorry," Sherlock mumbled.

John pulled back, smiling (that was a good sign), and he took Sherlock's face in his hands and kissed him. "It's fine. Honestly, Sherlock, you did nothing wrong."

He walked him home, John intentionally slowing down the closer they got. He pressed another kiss to his lips once he was nearly home because Sherlock didn't walk all the way to his house with him. Sherlock reminded him of their 'proper date' and where to meet him. Now all John had to do was come up with an excuse for his parents when they ask why he's wearing a tie.

xxx

Sherlock wasn't kidding about the dark purple dress shirt and black dress pants. He smiled as John walked towards him, the lights of the city shimmering behind him. He looked absolutely ethereal, breathtaking in a way only Sherlock could in John's eyes.

John felt that his mouth was open, and Sherlock must have noticed because he nearly laughed when he saw him standing there.

"Hi," he said.

"You're the most beautiful person I've ever seen," John blurted out.

Sherlock smiled and raised his eyebrows. "I should dress like this more often."

"No, I like how you dress normally, just . . . You look gorgeous."

"So do you," Sherlock said, straightening John's tie.

"Not like you and your . . . cheekbones."

"No, you are much better than me, John, in more ways than one," Sherlock said. "Come on."

He took John's hand and started walking. He loved holding his hand. The warmth of it, the safety, the complete feeling that reminded him that he wasn't alone and didn't have to be.

"What did you end up telling your parents?" Sherlock asked.

"That I was going on a date," John answered with a smile.

Luckily they didn't ask any details about the supposed girl they thought he was taking out or where he was taking her to, because if he just told them he had a date, it wouldn't be a lie, and they wouldn't be able to call him out on it.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows, looking amused. "Oh? Did they ask who it was with?"

John shook his head. "They don't care at this point."

"It'd be the easiest thing in the world to see if they would just look. Or rather, smell. It's all in the different kind of aftershave you're wearing."

"How—you know what, I don't even want to know. And anyway, it's a good thing they couldn't see that."

Suddenly Sherlock was holding his hand tighter and walking so close that their shoulders were touching, softening and lowering his voice. "Have you given any thought to coming out yet?"

John sighed. "All the time. Sometimes I just want to say it so bad, but I never do. They would disown me and hate me and kick me out, and I just can't handle that."

Something flashed across Sherlock's eyes, a sudden realization. He knew now, but he didn't say anything. He just leaned over, kissed John's temple, and kept walking.

"You're sixteen," said Sherlock. "Two years from now, you'll be out of that house and be able to do whatever you want. They won't be able to control you your entire life, and if they disown you when you're twenty-five and getting married to a man, then well, maybe it's for the best."

He was right. Sometimes John forgot that hiding and feeling fake wasn't going to be for the rest of his life. He would go to university, he would become a doctor, he would get married, maybe have some kids. If he did, he sure as hell would treat them right.

But the thing that really hit home with John and made him aware of what was happening was the married to a man comment. Growing up, he'd always pictured himself marrying a woman. It was what his parents would joke about when he would befriend any girl, even when he was seven—"Oh, look, Johnny's talking to a girl! Do you think that's his girlfriend?"

"Thank you. I forget about that."

"Don't forget it. Besides you, the thought of moving out is my anchor."

John looked down and felt his cheeks heat up. He couldn't help but wonder if they would still be together by the time they moved out. For some reason, he was strangely confident about it. He could picture moving into a shitty flat while they were in university; Sherlock in his tank-top with messy, unbrushed hair; John in some rugby shorts and a t-shirt, moving in boxes together. It just seemed like the perfect picture.

He really hoped Sherlock couldn't figure out what he was thinking about, because he would probably run if he knew John was fantasizing about moving in together and marriage and kids only two months into their relationship. Smitten. That was the word. Irrationally, giddily smitten, and he wouldn't want it any other way.

They approached the restaurant, a French place John wasn't posh enough to have been before. Sherlock walked in with his chin up and his posture perfect, as if they weren't the youngest ones there and the older couples there weren't staring at him like was a stray dog that just walked in.

John stood back while Sherlock retrieved their table and followed behind him. Sherlock pulled out his chair for him, which made John giggle, earning a few more glares. Once Sherlock had pushed up John's chair, he went to his own chair, smiling smoothly at John.

The place was almost too much. Chandeliers hung from the ceilings, the walls were a beige color with dark wooden trimming, a harpist played near them, and the floor was so pristine John didn't even want to stand on it for long.

"This was my brother's recommendation, by the way. He made the reservations and everything. I am usually much less . . . whatever this is."

John was still looking around him in awe. "This is what you're used to in your family?"

"Yes." Sherlock actually sounded embarrassed, but John couldn't figure out why. "They belong in the Baroque period. It's god-awful."

"No, I think it's nice. If I asked my sister for a dinner recommendation, she'd tell me to take you a darkly-lit bar with drunks fighting behind us."

Sherlock suddenly looked very interested. "Sister?"

John hadn't meant to bring her up. Although he wouldn't be surprised if he hadn't figured it out already. "Yeah, my older sister, Harry. She's not like your brother."

Sherlock stared for a few seconds before slowly nodding. "Okay," he said quietly, more to himself than anything. He must have understood that John didn't want to talk about it anymore, because he ordered then, to change the subject. John trusted him judgement and echoed back the exact same thing Sherlock ordered to the waiter.

"You really do look gorgeous," Sherlock said when it got too quiet, even though it was a comfortable silence.

John laid his hand on the table, wrist-up, and gestured for Sherlock's. He closed his hand over Sherlock's slim fingers and ran his thumb over his porcelain skin in small circular motions, the two of them sharing a warm smile John had never exchanged with anyone before.

"Thank you," he said.

The food was interesting. Good, but interesting. Apparently Sherlock was also used to French things and could speak it fluently. John tried to get him to say something in French, but he refused good-naturedly, assuring him that maybe he would later.

They could still hold hands as they ate. John held Sherlock's left hand in his right, and while he was left-handed, Sherlock was right-handed. It fit. Everything worked out. Everything fit. Everything was right.

He learned a lot more about Sherlock, actually, and he felt like Sherlock learned about him. For instance, John learned that Sherlock's name was actually William, and Sherlock was one of two middle names of his. He agreed that he should go by Sherlock, because he was definitely a Sherlock, whatever that meant.

John also learned that he played the violin. He felt his mouth open as he was smiling, but Sherlock seemed confused.

"Oh, that is perfect," he'd said. "Mysterious boy with the piercings and occasional eyeliner plays the violin. You are adorable."

Sherlock had a quick, witty sense of humor that appeared at random, and John never saw the comments coming, and he found himself laughing and throwing his head back several times, and Sherlock told him he planned to keep doing it because of how much he loved his smile and laugh.

Sherlock insisted that he would pay, and John felt like he should try to argue, but he and Sherlock both knew he couldn't afford this place. He wasn't poor or anything. His father was an optician, and his mother owned a small vintage store that John used to spend more time there than at home, it seemed, when he was little. He just liked it. He liked the clothes, the records, the smell of dust and old books and the nearly-gone pumpkin scented candle his mother kept around that infiltrated your nose as soon as you walk in.

After he paid, he took hold of John's hand again and let him into the city. John loved how London looked at night. You couldn't see all of the bad this way. You only saw bright lights and heard muffled, upbeat music when they walked past a club, and you could see your breath in front as you felt tiny snowflakes against your skin because it snowed while they were in the restaurant, which somehow felt more freeing at night.

John looked over and was once again entranced by the way Sherlock looked, with snowflakes caught in his dark lashes and hair, kicking the thin powdery snow in front of him.

Sherlock caught him staring from the corner of his eye and smiled, slipping his hand from his and snaking it around his waist.

"I really, really like you," John heard himself say. Sherlock kept smiling and kissed the top of his head, pulling him close, John's head almost on his chest.

"I like you, too, John," he said. "Quite a bit. More than that, actually, like, a lot."

John laughed softly. "Thank you for tonight," he said, kissing his jaw. "Not just for the date, but just . . . getting to be with you, I guess. It's been a very long time since I've felt like this about someone." Very long time meaning forever. But he felt like he shouldn't say that yet.

"You don't have to thank me, John. Really, I should be thanking you that you that you'd even let me breathe the same air as you."

"I don't get how you see me like that, like I'm better than everyone else."

"Because you are, in my eyes."

"I'm really not."

"Neither am I. But you look at me as if you think I'm something special." They stopped once they got to John's street, turning to face each other.

John reached out and held the back of his neck softly. "Because you are." They kissed, Sherlock style—soft, slow, and romantic. John style kisses—face-touching, hair-stroking, tongue involvement—were usually saved for more private places, but it never went any further than a few (more like fifty) wet, sloppy kisses that anyone watching would probably find gross.

"Goodnight, John."

"Goodnight, Sherlock."


	13. Some Dance To Forget

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title comes from "Hotel California" by The Eagles because it's one in the morning and that's what I have playing right now.

Sherlock had fallen into the habit of clutching onto his pillow when he slept. He hadn't even meant to start doing it, really. One night, a bad night, he just began holding it and woke up like that. It only seemed logical that it was because of John.

Actually, he couldn't sleep tonight. Sometimes he just couldn't.

He didn't want to call John and wake him up in the middle of the night, although he wouldn't tell him that because he'd get mad, but he wanted him there. They'd fallen asleep together a few times before, the first time being at that party, of course. It just felt right, like it perfectly fit. Like they perfectly fit together.

Thinking of the second time always helped Sherlock sleep with a slight smile on his face. It had been at John's house months ago, when both of his parents were gone for the weekend. Sherlock had been reluctant to go over at first, but even if it didn't cease the annoying little voice in the back of his head, he reminded himself that this was John, and he wouldn't hurt him. And he didn't.

Their day had been rather domestic. When Sherlock got there, John ran up and pecked his lips, obviously having ran in from the kitchen where he'd been trying to make "lunch" because somehow his mother thought he could handle making food that didn't involve putting it in the microwave for three minutes and being ready to serve it. So Sherlock helped him, although he was really no better at it than him.

One thing led to another, and then John and Sherlock were throwing uncooked food at each other while John laughed that light, airy laugh that Sherlock loved so much. They had to clean up the mess afterwards, which led to slow kisses against the counter. For dinner, they just ordered take-out.

Then at night, they curled up in John's bed and watched a movie from his extensive collection on his dusty television that had obviously once been downstairs long ago, until his parents got a better TV and gave him that one. John was the first to fall asleep after the movie was over, his head on the pillow but still brushing against Sherlock, and his arms were around him.

Sherlock watched him for a while. He was just so used to him. The rise and fall of his chest, the slight parting of his lips, his hair already becoming unruly for the morning. He was perfect. Sherlock knew his body so well, he realized. He knew where his hands were on the tiny bits of his hips that spilled over his waistband, and he knew the soft texture of his hair, and the way his hands and arms felt against him, his shoulder that was the perfect size for Sherlock to put his cheek on.

It was strange for him to think that John felt this way about him, that Sherlock's body felt much different to John than it did to him, that he could notice all these tiny little things about him. He wondered if John knew how exquisite he was. It was obvious he didn't find anything special about himself, but he wasn't particularly insecure, or at least, not insecure about anything openly. There was always something one was insecure about.

He awoke the next morning with John laying on his arm, his back pressed against Sherlock's stomach. Sherlock took his free hand and ran it through John's hair and kissed the back of his neck every so often until he woke up, peacefully and naturally. He turned and smiled warmly at Sherlock, his hair lying askew all across his forehead. Then he kissed him lightly and tenderly on his lips.

It was like they weren't even sixteen. Sherlock had been under the impression that all teenage relationships were heavy and too fast and sexual, but he'd been wrong. They weren't like that. Things were perfect. It was something Sherlock could have for the rest of his life, and he vehemently hoped it would last until then.

xxx

The only reason Sherlock went to school the next day was because John would be there. He needed to hold him and be able to forget last night for now. The nightmares came back again shortly after he went back to sleep, and he'd been two seconds away from calling John. But something stopped him. His mind told him that if he called that early in the morning, he would have to tell John everything, and he wasn't ready for that.

When he saw John, he tried to act like he wasn't trying not to collapse onto him and cry because he'd had a bad night. Instead, he smiled and kissed him like normal.

"Look what I got," Sherlock said, rolling up his sleeve and covering his wrist with his hand to show a small, circular patch on his forearm. Before John could ask, he said, "Nicotine patch. No smoke involved."

John smiled and sighed. "You don't have to quit smoking for me, Sherlock, I already told you."

"I know, but I want to. Not just for you, although it's primarily for you, but it's also for me."

Still smiling, John went in for a hug, feeling Sherlock's arms wrap around his waist. "I'm proud of you, Sherlock."

Then suddenly Sherlock was feeling extra sentimental, perhaps because he was reminded of how good John really was. "I care about you, John. More than . . . more than anything. And if I care about you, then I'll care about myself, too."

John kissed him, cupping his face in his hands. "More than anything?" John whispered. He sounded shocked, like he'd never heard those words or something along those lines before.

Sherlock nodded. "More than anything. It used to be that whenever I was alone, I would think too much, about bad things, things that would make me want to do bad things in return. Now it's just you. I think about you, and it's all okay."

"And I care about you, too, by the way. I care about you more than anyone I have ever cared about before," John said, still thinking about what he meant by those bad things he thought about and what bad things he'd done to himself. Just the thought of it made John shudder. Sherlock being hurt put John in actual, physical pain, causing his chest to feel tight and constricting.

Sherlock pressed his forehead against his and kissed his nose. "I'll walk you to class."

So he did. And along the way, Sherlock had somehow brought up his parents, and John was intrigued again. He couldn't understand why John would be so interested in his family.

"Your parents aren't homophobic, are they?" John asked abruptly.

"No," Sherlock said, sounding rather confused.

"And I take it they won't go talking to mine?"

"Where are you going with this, John?"

"I want to meet them."

Sherlock stopped for a second, and when he saw that John was continuing to walk, he caught up. "Why?"

John nearly laughed. "Because they're your parents, and they should know who I am."

Another point Sherlock failed to see the importance of. They didn't need to know John any more than John's parents needed to know Sherlock. And the fussing they'd do over him while he was there, and the giggling when he leaves. It made Sherlock's head hurt thinking about his mother squealing when she saw them together.

"If you insist. But understand that things might be awkward with them at first."

"Aren't things always?"

xxx

Sherlock's house was big. Very big. John felt slightly embarrassed at his house that most people were surprised to find out that there are even two stories to it. But Sherlock didn't seem to gloat about it. He just walked up and opened the door like it was nothing.

His mother came walking into the foyer and froze, blinking as if to make sure she wasn't seeing the dead ghosts of the people who lived in the house before them, but no, Sherlock looked more awkward than usual, so he had to be real.

John looked between Sherlock and his mother, noticing the obvious tension and unspoken questions rushing between them. He cleared his throat and broke the silence because obviously neither one of them was going to do it. "Hello."

She snapped out of her confusion, or at least put up a convincing front. "Hello. Are you a friend of Sherlock's?" she asked with a wide, red-lipped smile. John figured this would be what Sherlock would look like as a woman. The same cheekbones, the same fair skin, the same dark curly hair, the same piercing blue gaze, the same tall and bony body. The only difference was that she had a rather long, hawkish nose.

"I'm his boyfriend, actually." He knew Sherlock was looking at him with wide eyes and was biting his tongue to stop himself from asking him what he was doing, but fuck, did that feel good. He realized only after he'd said that that he'd never introduced himself as such.

"O-oh. Oh," she said without a smile, but instead with an almost horrified expression, and John thought he'd messed up bad, but then she grinned and clapped her hands together and giggled. "Oh!"

She walked over and began coddling John, holding his face in her hands and pushing his hair back and asking him questions ("What's your name?" "How did you meet?" "How long has it been?"), giving John barely enough time to answer, and he was wondering how she was breathing in between, if she even was.

Mrs. Holmes was taller than John, even if she wasn't wearing the heels she had on, and John should have felt awkward, but he didn't. She seemed nice enough, and obviously she didn't hurt Sherlock in any way. They even jokingly picked at each other when she offered to show his baby pictures.

Even if she didn't show John, he still saw several pictures along the fireplace and on the walls. He saw one where Sherlock was probably thirteen and only had a nose piercing, standing there next to his mother with that small half-smile, and it was on some kind of holiday, Christmas, probably. John smiled at the picture, which made Sherlock blush for some reason. ("I was thirteen, John, don't even mention the eyeliner—it was a phase.")

Another showed a young boy who was unmistakably Sherlock, smiling a wide grin that showed all his baby teeth and a few missing. He figured he was about eight here. And there was his mother standing there hoisting Sherlock up on her hip; a man who must have been his father; and a tall, rather spotty teenage boy who had his mother's nose and wavy, auburn hair with an almost dangerously intelligent-looking smile who must have been his brother.

They all looked so happy. But something about the picture was off. There was something about the way it was too small for the frame, like it had once fit, but part of it had been folded back. And part of it was obviously gone. Their father's arm went around Sherlock's brother, but his arm wasn't fully around him, as if his hand was on another person's shoulder.

Before John could investigate the picture any further, Sherlock came up behind him and took his hands and fit his chin perfectly on John's shoulder. "We went trip to Ireland one summer. We spent part of it in the countryside, and part in the city. It's lovely, but I could never live in anywhere other than a city."

John smiled and tilted his head to the side, feeling Sherlock's sharp cheekbone and warm skin against his. "I've never been to another country. I've barely even left London. My parents have never been the traveling type."

"But you are?"

"Well, I mean, I guess I would be, since I've never really been anywhere."

"Where would you most want to go?"

"I kind of want to go to New York City at least once in my life."

Sherlock squeezed his hands. "We'll go one day."

John loved it when they made plans that seemed so far away, proving that they intended a future together. It may have only been four-and-a-half months in, but strangely, John had trouble imagining being with anyone else. He didn't want anyone else. He didn't even take a second look at handsome guys on the street he saw anymore. Because he had Sherlock, and he hadn't known it back then, and he wished to God he had, but Sherlock was the best thing to happen to him.

He didn't even realize that Mrs. Holmes had come back in the room. John hadn't realized she'd even left. Sherlock didn't so much as flinch when she saw them. In fact, he barely moved at all. Now his chin was rested on top of John's head, and his hands were around his waist, his fingers interlaced on his stomach,and John simply placed his hands over Sherlock's.

She walked in just in time to see Sherlock kiss John's hair, and John found it a bit odd that she almost looked like she was going to cry tears of joy. But then he thought back to what he had to go off of when it came to their relationship, and suddenly it made a little more sense.

"Are you staying for dinner, John?" Mrs. Holmes asked.

"Uh, if it's all right with you," he said. John hated being in control of those decisions where he didn't know what the other person wanted him to say. But surely they would want him to stay, right? And John was in no hurry to get home, of course.

"Of course it is. And you still need to meet my husband."

John couldn't help but feel nervous at that. It was normal human nature for a boy to be nervous about meeting their partner's parents, and it had never gotten to that point with his previous relationships before, apart from an awkward exchange of hello's when he was picking up a girl from her home to take her out.

Sherlock noticed how tense he got and squeezed him, kissing his neck lightly, his lips brushing over his skin like a butterfly. "I assure you, John, my mother is definitely the harsher judge when it comes to boyfriends."

His mother laughed. "That's true, John, and don't forget it." She cupped his cheek for a moment and then pinched it. It must make up for not having anything to pinch on Sherlock. "But I like you."

"That's a very hard compliment to come by," Sherlock said sincerely.

"It really is. Nothing hurts me more on this earth than to see one of my boys hurt, so I never like the ones who I can see doing that."

John couldn't see himself hurting Sherlock anymore, either. Yes, it had been the thing keeping him from being with him in the first place, just the fear of him doing it, but now he knew that he would never hurt him, no matter what, and he didn't mind telling Sherlock that. He seemed to believe it, and he also seemed to feel the same way.

"I won't hurt your son, Mrs. Holmes," John said, turning around to face Sherlock. "I promise."

The look in John's eyes set off yet another wave of sentiment in Sherlock, but this time it was different. This time it was enlightening. Now he understood the feelings in his chest and the songs on the radio and the beauty people found in strange things. It all made sense now.

Sherlock was falling in love with John. And part of him wanted to let it happen. But the other part was terrified.


	14. All Love And Glory

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, my, it's been too long, friends. Sorry. I've been busy doing aggravating, time-consuming stuff. I'd rather be writing, trust me. But I did get a new laptop, so no more slowly pecking at my tablet with my thumbs. :)))
> 
> Chapter title comes from "Fiction Romance" by The Buzzcocks.

John was late on the last day of school. His alarm messed up and didn't wake him up until he had ten minutes to get there. He knew it didn't really matter because it was the last day and it wasn't like he would be missing anything, but he still rushed to get ready and out the door, jogging down the pavement.

The real reason why he was rushing was because of the day, but not for a school-related reason. He grabbed the little box he'd prepared a week ago and shoved it in his jacket pocket, heading out the door. John attempted to wrap it and tie the bow as neatly as the gifts he'd received from Sherlock, but his wasn't nearly as pretty. Hopefully, though, the present itself would make up for the haphazard wrapping job he'd done on it.

He could hardly believe it had already been six months with Sherlock. Not only was it his longest relationship, but he also had never felt this way about anyone. He could imagine being with him for another six months, see them going to university together, see them get married, see them start a family. He could see them happy.

It was a strange feeling, but he loved it. He loved everything about it. He loved . . .

Was it too early for that? John had been debating the question for a few weeks now. He knew couples who said they loved each other just a few weeks (sometimes days) after they start dating, and he didn't really want to appear as one of those people. But six months was half of a year, which was longer than those couples. They usually broke up a few days after saying that, anyway, because it wasn't actual love. But he and Sherlock; this was real love, wasn't it? John had nothing to base it off of, and Sherlock probably didn't either, but it had all the symptoms of what people say love should be and feel like.

His parents weren't the best example, so John had spent a lot of time thinking about the people he considered to be in love.

Incessant doting on each other? Check.

Plans for the future? Check.

Annoys their friends? Check.

Deep understanding of each other? Check.

Never tires of looking at each other? Check.

The feeling that you would protect them with your life? Check.

So, yes, John Watson was in love, by definition. But that didn't mean he would say it yet. Probably.

"Hey, mum, I'm probably won't be home until late tonight. Is that okay?" John said as he walked into the sitting room, his bag thrown over one shoulder. He didn't actually have plans yet, but if he knew Sherlock, which he did, he suspected they would be celebrating.

She took off her glasses and pushed her blonde hair back, wiping the glasses off and continuing the type away important texts on her phone. "Yes," she said absently. It was needless to ask at this point because John always stayed out after the last day of school, but he still said it anyway.

"'Kay, thanks," he said on his way out.

He practically ran to school, and was nearly sweating and short of breath by the time he got there. On the side of the building where the influx of kids filing in was thinning out, John saw the screen of a phone lighting up Sherlock's face and giving his dark brown hair a lighter tint on the bits that were being highlighted. He was sitting with his back to the wall and his knees pulled in and one hand delicately placed under his chin, giving his quite a sophisticated look.

John went over and tapped his shoulder, and Sherlock looked up, his admittedly rather angry-looking resting face turning into that beautiful smile of his. He held out his hand for John to pull him up, who rolled his eyes, but gladly obliged, kissing his jaw as he did so. Sherlock's arms snaked around his waist and pulled him against him, their chests touching.

"Let's skip today," John said.

"I never thought I'd hear you say that," Sherlock said.

"I doubt they'll notice."

"No, they won't. I'm still taking you out tonight, though."

John smiled. "Somewhere fancy?"

"Of course. It's a celebration, isn't it?"

"Fine, but I'll probably look awful." John took Sherlock by the hand and pulled him towards him while walking backward. He gave him another quick kiss before turning around and walking, now with Sherlock at his side and still holding his hand.

"You don't look awful."

"You're too sweet, love."

With a sigh, Sherlock said, "John, you are the single most radiant thing in all of London, and it would be my honor to spend dinner with a creature as beautiful as you."

"Much better." Once they came to a stop near a tree somewhere, John pulled the box out of his pocket and handed it to him. "Here's your present," John said, holding out the box.

Grinning adorably bashfully, Sherlock took it and slowly undid the bow and paper, revealing a velvet black box that swung open.

"They're puzzle piece necklaces," he said, and they were.

One for Sherlock and one for John. Of course, the puzzle pieces fit together. The saleslady told him, Oh, your girlfriend will love these, and John almost immediately said no because the first time she said that, one of the necklaces had 'hers' written on it. But then he saw them and bought them, not even correcting the saleslady, which he did feel slightly guilty about.

"Yeah, I walked into that jewelry store with the intention to walk out of there with the cheesiest gift I could find."

"You succeeded," Sherlock said, going behind John to put one of the necklaces on him, the other one already around his neck and glistening in the sunlight almost as prettily as he did. "But I love them. Thank you."

Then, on cue, Sherlock gave John his present, which was in a bigger box, but weighed about the same as John's gift, if not a tad lighter. John opened it, feeling Sherlock's eyes intently watching him, almost looking nervous.

"You got me a new jacket," John said with a smile, holding it up. He almost asked how much it cost because damn, did it look expensive. It was grey (John's "color", according to Sherlock because where it looked dull on other people, it supposedly made his eyes stand out) and soft and fit perfectly and had round, smooth little black buttons on it.

"Did I get your size right? I was pretty sure I did."

"Yeah, fits great. How much was this?"

He was quiet for a moment. "To a lot of people, it would sound expensive, but . . ." he trailed off. "I got my mother's approval and everything. She said it was fine. She said, and I quote, 'that will look great on John.'"

"Tell your mum thanks. And it's fine. It's just that sometimes I forget how posh you are.'

"I'm posh?"

"You are the definition of posh." John leaned over and kissed him. "Thank you for the jacket. I might even consider giving you back the one of yours I've been holding captive since I was last at your house."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "Is that where my leather jacket went?"

"It's very comfortable," John tried to say with a straight face, but ended up laughing at the glare he received from Sherlock. God, he loved him. He felt his heart speed up when he realized this was the first time he'd actually admitted it to himself in the complete form. And it felt okay to love him.

xxx

Dinner at a posh restaurant somehow led the conversation to coming out. It came up almost every date they had, when John was reminded of how ridiculously happy he was and how he didn't want to hide it from anyone anymore. It was getting exhausting, especially after the epiphany he'd had recently, which only made him want to make it public even more.

"I don't want to hide what we have forever," John abruptly while he was holding Sherlock's hand on the table.

"We can tell people whenever you're ready, I've told you before."

"It's my parents I'm most afraid of. I don't know how they'd react, but I have a feeling it'll be bad."

"You'll know when it's time, John. It might not be for a long time."

"I know, but when I get married, I don't want that to be me coming out. Because I want them to come to my wedding and accept it."

"Have you thought about how you're going to do it?"

"I don't know what I would say. What was it like for you?"

"Once my brother came out, it wasn't so hard. It was just, 'mum, dad, I'm gay,' and we moved on."

"How did your brother come out?"

Sherlock chuckled softly. "Well, I was twelve, and I was upset about my curly hair—"

"Why? Because all the cool scene kids on MySpace had straight hair?"

"Maybe."

"Oh, my God." John began to laugh, while Sherlock fake pouted. John reached over and ran his fingers through his hair, and Sherlock leaned into his touch, stealing a kiss from John's cheek. "For what it's worth, I think your hair is beautiful."

"Thank you," Sherlock said. "Anyway, it was at this family reunion, so we were surrounded by absolutely horrendous, bigoted people, and, Mycroft being Mycroft, says, 'my hair is straight,' to annoy me, and my father says, 'it isn't completely straight, Mycroft,' so Mycroft couldn't resist saying, 'just like me.' Loudly. In front of everyone. It was great. Everyone looked so horrified, and my mother tried to look disappointed, but you could tell she was trying not to laugh."

"See? You love him. Hell, I've never met him, and I love him. You always act like you hate him."

Sherlock appeared stubborn for a few seconds, but his features softened eventually. "Okay, fine, he was a fun older brother. It's good to have a teenage sibling when you're so young because they're more mature and manage to be like a sibling, but also like a parent at the same time. We were very close. He took me everywhere, whether he wanted to or not. It usually only took a tantrum or two to get my way with him. The point is that even if my parents didn't have time for me sometimes, he would."

And Sherlock couldn't mention this, but after the incident, when Mycroft walked in and saw Sherlock amongst their family, pretending everything was okay, and Sherlock still remembered the look on Mycroft's face before he walked over, grabbed him by the arm, yanked him aside and whispered in his ear, "Who was it?", clearly intent on killing the perpetrator, and with how he sounded and looked right then, Sherlock wouldn't have put it past him right then to find them and murder them.

"That's really sweet, actually," John said.

"Even though I called him a fat pig yesterday."

"And you ruined the moment."

"He was annoying me!"

"Be nice to him!" John said, amused, and then fell quiet. He looked down and twirled the straw in his drink, and he was still smiling, but it fell only slightly. "I have an older sister, you know," he finally said.

Sherlock stared for a while and blinked. "You don't talk about her much."

"Not many people do. I think my parents like to believe they don't have another child."

"What happened?"

John sighed, taking hold of Sherlock's hand and massaging it with his own, the cool, pale skin and all of its familiar lines and veins comforting him. "A lot of things. She's twenty now, but I haven't seen her since she was sixteen, almost seventeen. So I was like twelve," John said, recalling all of the information about her as it came back to him.

"She didn't get along with our parents. She never had. But when she became a teenager, things got really bad. She started drinking a lot. Smoking, too, and I think maybe some weed, but that wasn't as bad as the drinking—that was the worst part. And then . . ." He blew out a breath through his mouth. "She came out as a lesbian."

He went quiet, but Sherlock didn't say anything because he knew John wasn't finished. "That was it for our mum and dad. There was a huge, huge fight. It was terrifying, especially for a twelve-year-old who barely knew what being gay really was. So they kicked her out. She left that night, and it was so weird in the morning because everyone went along like she never even existed. I never said anything. Still haven't."

By now, John's smile had faded completely, leaving an impassive look on his face, like one he'd use walking down the street. But he always seemed to have the hint of a smile with Sherlock, if it wasn't a full-on smile. And when he didn't smile around him, that meant something was wrong.

Sherlock didn't know what to say. He was horrible in these situations; he always said the wrong thing. So he said nothing. He clasped John's other hand and gave both of them a simultaneous, reassuring squeeze and grazed over his skin with his thumbs, creating a mirror image on each hand.

They fell into a comfortable silence that required no words because there were none necessary. John wasn't really upset about it that much anymore and didn't mind Sherlock knowing, but they didn't have to further the discussion unless they chose to, which apparently they weren't.

After a few minutes, John smiled and retracted his hands back from Sherlock's, putting them in his lap. Sherlock's were left on the table, but he quickly moved them to himself again as he crossed his arms over his chest.

"Stop looking at me so sad," John said. "It's okay, honestly. It was a long time ago. Let's just change the subject. You said there was a reason you brought me here? It wouldn't happen to have anything to do with, oh, I don't know, a certain important date that happened six months, perhaps, prior to today?" John asked with a wry smile.

Sherlock had almost completely forgotten. Now his pulse increased and his cheeks flushed all over again at the reminder of doing this. "No. Well, yes, we're celebrating our six month anniversary, but I brought you here for another reason."

He took a very deep breath and found that his voice has stopped working. Either his voice or mind, he wasn't sure, but no words would come. So he warmed himself up with an introduction. "John, I . . . I have something to tell you, but I don't know how. Well, I do, actually, it's a mere matter of making words come out of my mouth, but this is a lot more than that."

"Sherlock . . ." John began, sensing what was about to happen. But he didn't look nervous or tense or awkward, and at least he wouldn't laugh or reject him.

"Forget it. No, don't, I need to say it, I'm just nervous," Sherlock said at a rapid pace.

"Okay, Sherlock, calm down. What if I say it first, and then all you have to do is say it back?"

Sherlock swallowed sharply and nodded, tapping his knuckles against the table, a habit he hadn't intended to start until now.

John smiled and took both of his hands, taking a deep breath. He actually looked nervous. Why would he look nervous? He already knew that Sherlock was going to say it back. But neither of them had said it very much.

"Sherlock Holmes," John began, grinning even wider and squeezing his hands, "I love you."

And then all was right in the world. It was like their surroundings all melted away, along with every bad feeling Sherlock had ever felt in his life. It was like being born again, with nothing but those first words spoken to you, with no idea of what evil things were in the world.

Sherlock wasn't sure how long he sat there starry-eyed and smiling like an idiot, but he finally found his voice. "I love you, too," he said.

"That is what you wanted to say, right?" John giggled.

"Yes. It was," Sherlock replied with a small laugh.

John relaxed and kissed Sherlock's fingers. "I've never actually said that to anyone that way before."

"Neither have I. But I do truly love you."

"And I truly love you." Sherlock gently grabbed his chin and kissed him as John put his hands on either sides of his slim neck. "I'll never get tired of saying that," John said, inches from Sherlock's face. And then kissed him lightly. What a perfect way it was to end a school year.


	15. From Your Wicked Past

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title comes from "Love Me Tonight" by Social Distortion.

“Guess where I am,” Sherlock said into the phone, sounding sly and secretive.

“Well, you’re not outside my window or in my room. Slightly disappointing. Where are you, then?” John had been hiding out in his room all day since his parents seemed to be in a bad mood and had been scrapping all morning about whatever, and he’d rather not get in their way.

“I’ll give you a hint: I’m waiting for a large man to put a needle into my skin.”

“A doctor?”

“Nope,” Sherlock said, popping the ‘p’.

"Well, now I'm just concerned."

"It'll be fine, John. These things usually go fine, unless it goes wrong and blood goes everywhere," Sherlock teased.

"Not making me feel any better."

“I'm not being serious. So, my grandmother hates my piercings—she brings it up every time she sees me. So I told her I would take out my eyebrow bar before she sees me next, which will be in a few days.” Sherlock heard a gasp from John followed by a ‘What? Really?’, which made him smile. “But I only said I’d take out the eyebrow, not the nose or anything else.”

“Oh, my God, what are you getting?” John asked as he began to understand.

“Vertical labret.”

There was a silence on John’s end, only with some keys clicking in the background quickly on what sounded like the thin clicks of a laptop keyboard.

“Okay, I just looked it up. Hot, but you really can’t kiss for a month?”

“It has to heal, of course. I can’t get an infection.”

“I’m going to go mad,” John said, and he could picture Sherlock’s smile in his mind, warming the inside of his chest.

“As will I. But it’s a small price to pay to annoy her. In fact, do you want to come over when she comes?”

John thought about it for a moment, wondering if his own parents would be suspicious. He'd been bringing Sherlock over to his house more often, and they didn’t like him any better than the first time they'd met, but they didn't say anything until he left, which was kind of okay. He didn't like to hear them talk about how horrible he was, but at least Sherlock himself didn't have to hear it.

As for Sherlock’s family, however, they seemed to all be crazy about John. Because they saw how good they were for each other. John hadn’t seen Sherlock at home before they started dating, so he didn’t even quite understand the extent of the effect he’d had on Sherlock, how much he’d made him better.

But then on the other hand, there was John's family, claiming that Sherlock was a bad influence and wishing he'd stop hanging out with him because they assumed he was only doing it out of pity or the kindness of his own heart. The last thing they expected was for John to be in love with the boy. Sherlock said he was surprised they hadn't gotten the idea that John was in love with someone yet, but John was grateful for it. He didn't need them guessing which girl he'd settled down for.

"Okay, sure. But she better not make fun of me."

"Don't worry, she'll save the insults for me and Mycroft."

xxx

The next time John saw Sherlock was in those few days he said his grandmother would be visiting.

John leaned in to kiss him, his hands linked around his neck, but reminded himself of the new piercing and swerved to the left and kissed his cheek warmly and slowly. He kept one hand cupping the side of his jaw and leaned back to look at him properly. Not only to see his lip, but also because it had been nearly a week since they'd seen each other, and it had been pure hell not being able to touch him or look at him in person, even if it hadn't really been that long.

"It looks good. Very good."

"Yes, it looks good now. It was all swollen, and I could barely talk. It's still a bit swollen, though, but at least I can eat and talk now. The inside of my mouth had a little bruise, actually, and when I looked it up, the Internet tried to convince me I had oral cancer."

"Never look up any symptoms on Google. That's the universal rule of life," John said, brushing back some of his hair just to feel the curls run through his fingers and see them fall so elegantly back down as soon as they were released, like a waterfall. "When can you kiss, though?"

"In a few weeks."

"So, it's strictly cheeks, forehead, nose, neck, and jaw, then, and cuddling."

Sherlock moved his arms around John's waist and pulled him in close, pressing their foreheads together and smirking. "I promise, once it's healed, I will give you the snog of your life."

From across the room, someone clearing their throat could be heard, and both John and Sherlock jumped and pulled apart, only to be met with a face unfamiliar to John, but he could assume this was the beast of a woman Sherlock kept talking about.

She definitely looked the part of the evil grandmother, with stark white hair and red lipstick bleeding into wrinkles on her skin with lips pulled into a permanent scowl and dressed in stuffy clothing from what looked to be the 30s.

"Sherlock," she regarded, giving a stiff nod of the head to John. Sherlock did separate from John, but he took his hand and squeezed it and held it right in front of her, which she pretended not to look at and disapprove of. "You got something else pierced, I see."

"Ah, but look." Sherlock pointed to his eyebrow, where two faint little holes that you could only see if you got really close to him were. "I took it out."

She sighed lightly, clutching her handbag a bit tighter as if fearing that Sherlock would take it just because he had a few pieces of metal in his face. "And who is this?"

"This is John. My boyfriend." He let go of John's hand only to slip his arm around his shoulders protectively and smile at him in a way that makes John question how anyone could ever not approve of their relationship.

"Hello," John said sweetly with a tiny wave, even though he was low-key fearing for his life.

She hummed in his general direction, which probably was meant as his hello that he would not be receiving from her. Whatever. Sherlock loved him, Sherlock's parents liked him, his brother . . . he hadn't met his brother yet and was actually more nervous to meet him than he'd thought. But he was sure to get along with him.

After some more awkward silence and staring, Sherlock ushered John in, and he was instantly met with an excited yell of, "John!" from Sherlock's mother, and she stole him away, Sherlock smirking and telling John he'd be in the drawing room (because of course the Holmes family would have a fucking drawing room), and she talked to him and caught up with him, and John met Sherlock's father once again. 

He was less intimidating than his mother, definitely, but John still strove to impress him and make him like him, just like he did with everyone else, but a little bit more when it came to Sherlock's family, and today he was off to a bad start. There was still Mycroft, who Sherlock adored whether he liked it or knew it or not, and John _had_ to have him like him. 

Once Sherlock's grandmother joined them in the dining room, John was polite for a few minutes before sneaking away and telling them he was off to go find Sherlock. He called his name once, and heard his voice coming from the room, all previous conversation ceasing to be replaced with the words, "I swear to God, if you embarrass me—" 

John bit back a laugh before walking in to find Sherlock with another guy, who was an inch taller than him, and John felt really short. Not that it was an uncommon feeling, though. He went and sat down beside Sherlock on the couch when they stared at him like they were wondering what he was waiting on.

"So you must be John," the guy said, smiling a devious little smile that wasn't unlike the one he got from Sherlock sometimes. John knew exactly who this was. The famous Mycroft Holmes he'd heard about.

He and Sherlock didn't look much alike, and he'd expected as much judging by the pictures he'd seen in Sherlock's house. Even so, he also looked different from those pictures, which he had been a teenager in. His hair wasn't shaggy anymore, he no longer had acne, and he was a bit more filled out now than he was back then. It was unmistakably him, though. Sherlock anxiously watched him to make sure he wasn't going to threaten John if he ever hurt him, which, admittedly, he'd be fine with because he'd never hurt Sherlock, but still.

"Yeah. Hello. Are you his brother?"

"I am," he answered. He looked John up and down, but not in a judgmental way (John hoped), but more in an analyzing way. He wanted to see the boy his brother was in love with and had decided to trust people and speak to people again because of. Holy fuck. Sherlock started speaking again because of him. How had that happened? John wasn't anything special, even if he had someone who was possibly the most special person in the world as a boyfriend.

"This is Mycroft. I've told you about him," Sherlock said, his arms crossed over his chest.

"Really? What has he told you?"

"Mostly that you're a meddlesome prick who doesn't know his boundaries, and all of your embarrassing childhood secrets," Sherlock said.

John rolled his eyes and giggled nervously. "He hasn't told me any of that. He's said some pretty sweet things, actually."

Mycroft looked utterly vindicated, while Sherlock asked, "Whose side are you on?"

"So, should I ask why your grandmother hates me?" he jumped right into, pointing a thumb behind him and lowering his voice even though she wouldn't even be able to hear his normal voice from in here.

"She's homophobic, I'm afraid," Mycroft answered, and then John suddenly remembered that he was gay, too.

"Mycroft doesn't bring home boyfriends, so she'll leave him alone about it. Although, I could call Lestrade at any time," Sherlock said with a sideways glance and grin directed at his brother, who rolled his eyes and scowled at him, and John struggled to keep up with them, as expected.

"Wait, Lestrade as in Greg?"

"Yes," Mycroft answered. "I don't think he realizes that I used to babysit Sherlock and he's the same age as him."

"Mummy is five years younger than Dad."

"I'm not going to date your sixteen-year-old friend, Sherlock."

"But you're not the one who has to listen to bad poetry about your eyes."

"No, but I am the one who has to listen to his awful puns and awkward compliments on my outfit."

"Greg's puns are top-notch. It's not his fault you're hard to compliment," Sherlock argued back.

Mycroft merely rolled his eyes. "The only reason you're doing this is because you've got a boyfriend now and now you're trying to project someone onto me, even if they are barely legal."

Sherlock rubbed the side of John's hand with his thumb. "I guarantee any relationship you ever have will not have someone as amazing as John, so I see no reason to push you into anything."

And John beamed.

Dinner was a quiet affair, filled with unintentional eye contact and uncomfortable topics being discussed.

"Have you cut off all contact from the other one, then?" their grandmother abruptly asks at one point, and Sherlock freezes. John is sitting across from him on the very end, Mycroft on Sherlock's side, and Mrs. Holmes on John's side.

"Oh, he hasn't come around in years. We haven't heard a thing from him in so long," his mother answers.

John noticed that Sherlock's knuckles were going white from his grip on the edge of the table, and Mycroft was watching him with careful eyes. They were doing that thing where they speak without speaking, using only their eyes, and John wished he could speak the language.

Mycroft cleared his throat before the conversation could advance. "Perhaps that wouldn't be the best idea. The last I saw of him, he was still getting into trouble."

Sherlock seemed to ease a bit, and Mycroft glanced his way again, his eyes clearly asking if he was all right, John knew that much. But he didn't know what about this topic that was making him so tense, and he wanted to. He wanted to be able to ask if he was all right and know when he's not. He can usually tell when something's up with him; he'd learned all his signs by now. But not about stuff like this, and it drove him crazy.

Meanwhile, Sherlock’s mind was going through some unwelcoming thoughts and a whirlwind of emotions right now. This would only lead to his parents arguing later, and it had been so long since they’d had a fight, and Sherlock would end up feeling like it was his fault, and then he’d be up in his room with even more unwelcoming thoughts that were even worse than these, and it would all start over again.

Everything had been going so well. Sherlock had John, his parents were getting along, he’d been communicating, he hadn’t wanted to hurt himself. It was like he was finally getting the life he’d always wanted. But now that was ruined just by a few intrusive thoughts coming back to haunt him once again. 

Mycroft and John were the only ones noticing. Oh, God. John. Of course Mycroft knew, but he didn’t want John to know yet. Maybe not ever. But he didn’t actually know what was wrong, only that there was something. He knew him like that. 

“May I be excused?” Sherlock suddenly said, interrupting some other conversation, and they all turned to look at him. His hands were trembling, and he was close to breaking a sweat. 

“Yes. Certainly, Sherlock,” his mother said, obviously concerned. She looked at John, who looked just as confused as everyone else (except Mycroft), and she almost said something else before Sherlock sprung up and darted away upstairs. 

Now Mycroft was looking at John as if to ask if he was going to go up there with him. Of course he wanted to, but he didn’t know if that was what he wanted him to do. But after a few more seconds of staring, John got the idea that yes, he definitely needs to go up there.

"Uh, I think I'm done, too. I'm going to go upstairs with Sherlock."

That comment earns him a half-shocked, half-disgusted look from his grandmother, but he ignores it and goes after Sherlock to find out what's wrong with him. 

When he walks into his bedroom, he finds Sherlock curled up in a darkly lit corner with his knees pulled in tight. He seemed to not quite fit in the little hiding place, so John assumed it was somewhere he hid as a child.

"Are you alright?" John asked, sliding down beside him, and Sherlock started to answer with either a no with no further explanation, but then John put a hand on his upper thigh, and Sherlock jumped and pushed his hand away.

"No, don't do that," he rushed out frantically.

John jerked his hand away and held it up in the air. "Okay, okay, okay, love. I'm sorry. That was dumb. I won't do it again."

It wasn't the first time he'd ever touched his thigh or leg by a long shot, but he'd never done it while he was upset. In fact, it had been months since John last saw Sherlock upset, and he'd never quite seen him like this before. When he said that he'd seen Sherlock upset, he meant that he'd seen him get worked up and worried over nothing and overthink everything; no crying involved ever. John had never seen Sherlock cry and didn't want to. He actually felt physical pain in his chest watching him like this.

Sherlock wasn't crying, not yet, but he was getting there. He had his legs like they intended to be crossed, but decided they wanted to be up, so they crossed at the ankles and were raised high enough so that he could put his face on his knees, his arms wrapped around them. He lifted his head long enough to transfer it over to John's shoulder and bury it there, one of his hands clutching at his arm.

"No. I'm sorry. You can hold me," he said through heavy breathing, and John immediately put his arms around him, keeping them around the shoulders this time.

John wasn't sure what his boundaries were here, so he went slowly, first resting his chin on his head, which seemed fine, so he lowered his lips to the top of his head, breathing him in, and pressed a few kisses to his hair, which also seemed fine. After that, he just kept his lips against his head, although not giving him any more kisses, and just held him, rocking him slightly back and forth.

By now Sherlock was crying silently other than a few sniffs here and there. He clutched onto John tightly by the shoulders and kept as close as he could without dissolving into him, which he would very much like to do right now. John had no idea what to say to him because he didn't know what was wrong.

He didn't ask anything stupid like if he wanted to talk about what was wrong because he knew that Sherlock definitely didn't want to talk about it, because if he did, he would have already said so. This was John; Sherlock told him everything. And even though John wanted to know what was wrong so he could know who or what he needed to hunt down and obliterate, he didn't push him into talking about something that could make him worse.

John wasn't stupid. He'd seen his arms. They'd never talked about the scars, but John felt his eyes gravitate towards them every time he didn't wear sleeves, which was awful of him, he knew, especially since Sherlock was so perceptive and knew he was looking. He didn't bring them up, though. That seemed wrong, somehow.

"I love you," John says instead of anything else going through his mind right then. Even so, that was one of the things. That was always one of the things he was thinking when he was with Sherlock.

Sherlock nods against his shoulder, and John feels some of the wetness of his clothes once it was given some air. "I love you," he whispers brokenly. 

And he holds him there, not knowing what else to do or what to say, but it's enough for both of them for right now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys can follow me on Tumblr, btw. My URL is teencroft. I should probably have it as my name on here, but I'm not giving up that URL. I mean, come on.


	16. Will We March Together?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title comes from "This Time, This Year" by Defiance, Ohio.

Sherlock recovered.

The next day, as soon as he woke up, since John must have put him to bed after he'd cried himself out into exhaustion, he went over to John's house. He vaguely remembered last night. He remembered what made him so upset, of course, but he also remembered John curling up next to him in bed and letting him rest his head on his chest as he stroked his hair and whispered to him, things like, "You're okay," which he wasn't, really, but the words helped nevertheless.

He knocked on the door and waited, not caring who answered it. Sherlock didn't like the fact that John's parents didn't like him only because he intended to be with John for a very long time, and if they didn't like him, that could cause complications, but he was otherwise fine by it. Plenty of parents didn't like him. Except it would be nice to have this particular set of parents like him.

As it turned out, John's father answered the door. He looked Sherlock up and down with obvious disapproval of his outfit, still not accustomed to the things he wore other than his school uniform (today it was ripped black jeans tight enough to make David Bowie blush, a white Clash shirt, and the leather jacket he'd reclaimed from John that still kind of smelled like him), but he managed a weak, fake smile.

"Hello," he said.

"Hello, Mr. Watson. Is John home?" he asked quickly, not wishing to be drawn into an awkward conversation with him. Perhaps he should be trying a bit harder to earn their approval, but by now he was convinced they'd despise him no matter what he did.

Without another word, his father went and called for John, who came bouncing down the stairs a minute later with messy hair, a white t-shirt, and some blue jersey shorts. He'd been up for a while now, but hadn't bothered to change clothes or brush his hair. Or come downstairs, for that matter.

He peeked out the door, saw Sherlock, and burst into a bright smile that his father didn't see, as John was standing behind him and his father was still taking in Sherlock. But when Sherlock's lips quirked upwards, he turned and looked at John, who acknowledged them both before disappearing into the bathroom to make himself actually presentable, even if he and Sherlock were just going to be talking.

They didn't have to talk, but apparently they were. John still wasn't going to pry, but he was curious and wouldn't object if Sherlock wanted to tell him. In actuality, the whole event kept him up most of the night, just picturing the horrified look on his face and the tears John had never previously experienced all over again, and how he couldn't have done anything to stop it.

Once he was dressed and combed his hair out a little, he said goodbye to his father quickly and left with Sherlock, deciding he was going to take whatever they said about it when he came home. Right now it was all about his Sherlock and if he was feeling better. He looked okay. He was smiling and laughing and extra cuddly today, wanting to hold John's hand tight and warmly and hug him and kiss his cheek several times in a row. John accepted it all and saved every smile in his mind for whenever the memories of last night returned to haunt him, trying to replace the tears with the laughs.

They weren't going to talk about what happened. Fine. John wasn't sure if he even wanted to know. He had this feeling that whatever caused this would make him go on a murderous rampage to find whoever did whatever to him. Just a hunch.

Sherlock and John arrived at Regent's Park with John on Sherlock's back, which was the position they'd taken a few minutes ago. John was giggling loudly and pressed a kiss to his temple before they sat down at an elegantly carved black bench, still sitting very close with Sherlock's arms wrapped around his waist. No one was giving them nasty looks or anything, despite them being two boys, which filled John with hope for the future, that maybe coming out wouldn't be bad at all. An old lady even smiled at them.

"Look at them, they're in love," John heard her say to her friend, who was just as old and smiley, and Sherlock smiled and brought John in a little closer.

"Lesbian daughter," Sherlock murmured to him.

John nodded to constitute as an 'oh'. "Good to know not all parents disown their gay kids."

Sherlock didn't even feel tempted to add in that his parents never did such a thing because he knew what this was about. It was always going to come back to his parents and what they did to his sister. He thought about it a lot, wondering if her alcoholism and drug habit had anything to do with it, if they would do the same to him, and he knew that John did the same.

Staring at the piece of art in front of them absently, Sherlock ran his thumb over John's arm before saying, "If they were to ever . . . disown you, John, you do know that you can stay at my house, don't you?"

It only made sense. Unless John had some other family member willing to take him in, but considering he doesn't know where his sister is, well. Who wouldn't want John, though? He is the single greatest thing in London, possibly the world. He's heaven, he's perfect, he's incredible, he's the entire world. Of course there are still girls who want him (some even flirt with him when Sherlock's sitting right there—John will let his fingers trace along Sherlock's under the table as he talked to them), but a family member is different.

"I know," John said, but he sounds relieved and mildly surprised. Did he really think Sherlock wasn't an option when he needed somewhere to live? Now he's staring at the artwork in front of them. It's pretty, easy to follow, with no hidden meanings or at least none John could come up with because he wasn't really an art person, but it was still pleasant to look at.

"What are you thinking?" Sherlock asked quietly, and John realized he'd never heard him say that before. He'd said it to Sherlock before, but not the other way around because he always seemed to know what was going through John's mind. His face was pressed against John's temple, his voice close to his ear and sending tingles down his spine, in the best way.

"I think," he began, "that I want this year to be the year." Before Sherlock could respond, he pulled back, still pressing their shoulders together, and pulled out his phone. "Get on Facebook."

Sherlock looked confused. "I get on Facebook maybe once a month, sometimes two months."

But John was already tapping away on his phone, a smile on his face. Sherlock wasn't one for social media, he'd learned, but he still had them all, and they were all pretty unused, but he still somehow manages to get fifty likes when he changes his profile picture, the attractive bastard. "Get on anyway."

So he did. He worked his phone out of his pocket, and John watched his face go from blank, standard Sherlockian to uncharacteristic surprise, and he looked up at John with his eyebrows raised up to his hairline.

"You . . . put that you and I are in a relationship," he stated.

"They know it's been over six months, too," John said, replying to a few comments and liking some. There were already quite a few. Most were positive, but there was one of John's friends who commented 'are u guys joking', which he ignored. It was probably a legitimate question, but John wasn't sure. He would give all of his friends three months to simmer down before going back to school. "I don't have family on here, by the way. Small steps."

It was a pretty big fucking step, actually. Mike was texting now, with the words 'So you are gay. I knew it' popping up on the screen. He smiled and replied to him, watching Sherlock stare at his phone in amazement.

"Oh. All right, then," Sherlock nearly whispered, and he liked the post and Greg's comment (which was 'i would like to thank not only god but also jesus'). Then he burst out laughing. He put his arm around John and pulled him close, kissing his tenderly on the lips. "Nice one, love."

John tried not to visibly melt at the use of the term of endearment. "Feels good."

"Mmm," Sherlock hummed under his breath, nuzzling against John's neck. "I love you," he murmured against his collarbone that was nearly covered by his jumper. Sherlock loved to joke about them, but he loved them and John knew it. There was one in particular that was practically Sherlock's at this point, that was baggy on him, but showed his flat, pale midriff when he lifted his arms or laid down.

John remembered a few weeks ago when Sherlock was wearing it when they were sitting in Sherlock's room, a Velvet Underground record playing, and Sherlock was lying down on his bed with his arms behind his head with his belly showing, the light of his matching necklace glinting due to the window that the sun was happening to pass over at that exact moment. John thought he was so beautiful right then. He was always beautiful, but right then, a lot of things were running through John's mind, things he was ignoring.

They were bad things and he shouldn't be thinking about them because this was Sherlock and he didn't want to rush things with him and Sherlock panicked when John touched his thigh and he wasn't going to be trying anything like that. It was final, necessary to their relationship. So John was pushing those thoughts back deep into his mind and just appreciating his boyfriend for everything that they actually do together.

"I love you, too."

"I never thanked you for last night," Sherlock then said, lower, in a tone that said that he really would rather not bring it up but needed to thank him.

"It's fine. You shouldn't have to thank me. Comforting you is a natural thing."

"I know, but . . . I don't know. Can I change the subject?"

"Definitely."

"Okay. Come to Bournemouth with me."

John leaned against his shoulder and toyed with one of Sherlock's hands with both of his own. More and more kids were showing up now, it seemed. He was sure some parents didn't want their kids to see two boys holding hands and cuddling, but fuck it. He saw a girl and a boy just a few minutes ago with their tongues shoved down each other's throats. Yes, he was being bitter about it, but he couldn't seem to help it. It was probably the fact that John's parents had been the parents to shield him from gays.

The first time John learned about being gay, he was eleven, at a rugby match with a few other boys. The oldest boy who was twelve (John can't even remember his name) had called Mike, who'd tagged along, a faggot, and he'd defended himself. Later, John asked Mike what a faggot was, and he said it was being gay, so he asked what that was. And he got his answer. It was a bad thing, apparently.

So when John started to develop a crush on a boy when he was thirteen, he was fucking terrified.

He didn't want that for his kids, if he decided to have them. He wasn't sure if he did or not. He's good with kids, and they like him, and they're easier to talk to than people his own age, but one of his own, to look after and worry about and not screw up. That was a whole other thing.

"Bournemouth? Why?"

"Because my parents are making us go for no apparent reason, and I already asked Lestrade, and he's going and so will Mycroft, so there goes his attention. Plus, it's for a week, and I'll miss you," he mumbled into John's hair.

"You say that last part like it pains you to admit it," John said, a little smile on his lips.

"Well, it isn't like I tell very many people I miss them. You're an exception."

"But what will I tell my parents?"

"You could always tell them you're with me," Sherlock mumbled, inspecting one of his nails. He sounded sad, almost. Hurt.

John looked at him, then looked back down. "I can't," he said. And he didn't say anything other than that. He couldn't tell Sherlock that his parents didn't like him, that he was referred to as "that horrible boy" by them, or that they would never agree if they knew it was him. Deep down, Sherlock likely already knew these things. He had to. Certainly he knew their true feelings about him, even if they didn't know who he really was to their son.

"Oh. Okay. It's fine."

John sighed. "No, it's not. You're upset."

"No, I'm not."

"Yes, you are. I know you."

"John, I assure you, it's fine."

"Fine."

"Fine."

He wouldn't ask, then.

xxx

"Hey, Mum?"

John's mother held up a finger to tell him to hold on, murmuring something into her phone and leaning back in her chair, looking agitated. Maybe he should have waited to ask, then.

He stood there shifting his weight and wringing his hands for a five minutes waiting for her to end the phone call. Luckily, whoever she was speaking to cleared themselves of being an idiot in her eyes, meaning she was in a better mood.

She hung up the phone after saying goodbye and placed it face down on the arm of the couch in case a text came through.

"What?" she asked, growing impatient when John was silent.

"Oh. Yeah. Right. Okay. So, I was wondering if I could go to the beach with a friend. For two weeks. There'll be adults."

"Where is it?" she asked, not showing any sign of being against it or for it yet.

"Bournemouth."

"Hm. Which friend?"

Now came the hard part. John couldn't stop a nervous laugh from erupting from his lips, which cause an eyebrow on his mother to rise. He cleared his throat and attempted to put on his poker face, the one he used when he was determined.

"The one who's been here a few times, you know? Tall, skinny, curly hair . . ."

"The emo kid?"

"I think he prefers punk," John tried, adding another laugh, and it faded when she didn't return it.

"I don't know, John—"

"He's a good person. He really is. And his family's really nice. They're also really rich, so they'll pay for everything, and all I'll have to bring is stuff I already have, like a bathing suit and a toothbrush and all that. I'll text, like, every day."

She went quiet, chewing on her lip and teetering her pen with two fingers on one hand and tapping her nails against her leg with the other. She took a deep breath like she was getting ready to say something, but then said nothing, tilting her head to the side slightly as if she were trying to see John differently. How differently was the question. "By 'adults', do you mean a twenty-year-old with a face tattoo and a criminal record?"

"No. His parents and grandparents will be there, and so will his brother, who's an Oxford graduate," John said, trying to impress her as much as he could, even if it meant laying it on a little thick. "Sherlock comes from a really good family. He'll—they'll take care of me." John winced once he realized what he'd almost said.

His mother just sighed. "Fine. Whatever. You better keep your promise and text."

"Thanks, Mum," John beamed, so happy he could hug her. Almost.

So he got out his phone and typed out a single text.

_I'm going to the beach with you, and yes, my mother knows it's you. I told her all about your nerdy family. Dweeb._


End file.
